


Kings Of Treason

by shatteredhourglass



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: AU: This Means War (Movie)-Inspired, Anal Sex, Bad Decisions, Crying During Sex, Deaf Clint Barton, Drunkenness, Everyone Is Horny For Natasha Romanov, Friends/Rivals To Lovers, Happy Ending, Idiots in Love, Invasion of Privacy, Jealousy, Kidnapping, Lack of Communication, Laser Tag, M/M, Masturbation, POV Clint Barton, Rimming, Rivalry, SHIELD Agent Bucky Barnes, SHIELD Agent Clint Barton, Slow Build, Smoking, Spies & Secret Agents, This Is STUPID, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, Trauma, Violence, oblivious idiots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-28
Updated: 2019-08-03
Packaged: 2020-07-23 18:46:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 27,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20013076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shatteredhourglass/pseuds/shatteredhourglass
Summary: Top-tier SHIELD agents Clint Barton and Bucky Barnes are benched for the foreseeable future. Hijinks ensue, resulting in terrible hipster cafes, spilled orange juice, a distinct sense of loneliness, jealousy, laser tag, and a truly terrible idea to bet on who can seduce that hot redhead from Stark Industries first.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by This Means War- the 2012 movie with Chris Pine and Tom Hardy. I find the ending unsatisfying. Next chapter in two days or quicker, based on popularity etc. (It's already written.) It should go without saying, but do not use women as props in your gay flirting contest.

“Barton, come in. You in position?”

“Yes ma’am,” Clint says lazily, leans up against the bar and gives the woman behind it a smile and a wink. The party’s in full swing, girls in gauzy dresses on the dancefloor with men in suits who only get away with being that handsy because of the amount of alcohol around. Clint’s got two fingers of whiskey in the glass he’s holding loosely too, but he hasn’t drank any of it.

There’s a couple of women in the corner looking at him and giggling, and when he smiles their faces light up with interest. He waves the bartender over. “Could you give the ladies a few drinks from me?”

“Of course, Mister Alexander,” the bartender says. “Can I offer you a complimentary snack? On the house, of course.”

“That’d be lovely,” he agrees. “Thank you, babe.”

Hill sighs loud enough for it to crackle through Clint’s comms. Clint’s used to her disdain by now, though, and occupies himself with picking the bartender’s phone number out of the plate of delicate-looking pastry things. He should wear a suit more often. Harrison ‘Harry’ Alexander the wealthy billionaire gets the ladies’ attention, holy shit. The food is exquisite, when he takes a bite, and instead of making an obscene moan like he wants to, he gives the bartender a calm nod of approval. She beams.

He tucks the folded-up paper into his pocket with the rest, a slowly growing collection of his conquests, and turns his smirk over to a man across the room.

Barnes raises his eyebrows but otherwise doesn’t acknowledge Clint. He’s too busy dancing, gloved hands on the girl’s waist as they move to the low thrum of the bass. He leans in to whisper something and Clint sees her arch up into his muscled chest, wonders what it is he’s said to make that look appear on her face.

Barnes is still maintaining steady eye contact with him, though, dark and amused even as his lips brush up against the shell of the girl’s ear. He’s cut his hair for this mission, and one strand falls loose from the gel and curls over his forehead, artful and somehow still neat. He’s not wearing a suit, but he doesn’t need to with that practiced, easy charm. Clint doesn’t roll his eyes, but it’s a close call.

“Excuse me?”

Clint turns his best smile onto the blonde approaching him. “How can I help you, gorgeous?”

“What are those called?” She points at the pastries. “I wanted to order some.”

Oh. Well. “I don’t know, actually. Let me ask for you.” He stops, reconsiders. Uses two fingers to push the plate a little closer to her. “Or I could share, you know. I’m nice like that.”

She takes a seat and the triumph is positively _delicious _,__ humming through his veins even as she smiles at him and offers her hand for a shake. He drops his fake name, cycles through the routine of reeling her in. Clint turns a smug look onto Bucky, who looks relatively unimpressed. There’s a very unsubtle middle finger raised at him, pressed against the exposed back of the girl he’s dancing with.

“Barton, do you __see__ the target or are you too busy flirting to look?”

“I’ve always got time for you, Maria,” he says as he turns from the girl he’s chatting up, scans over the people scattered in the club. His eyes land on a man in a fur coat sitting down in a booth, looking for all the part like he might have been eating a bowl of lemons before he’d arrived. It’s a _very_ sour look. Clint’s so amused by it that he forgets what he’s doing for a moment. God, it’s fucking delightful.

“I see him,” Clint says when he remembers. “You want us to follow him to the bathroom or something?”

“Why in the world would I want that? You’re lucky you’re good at what you do,” Hill answers. “Observe and report back, Barton. No contact with the target.”

“Fine,” he replies, glances over to Bucky. He’s moved away from the girl he was dancing with, leaning up against a wall with pink lights playing over the line of his jaw. Clint sees his lips move, makes out the word ‘ _dumbass’_ and watches his mouth shape out the b. Talking to Steve, then. Clint wonders what they’re talking about. Probably how he’s going to _lose_ , because Bucky Barnes is a _loser_. Ha.

“I have to go, but do call me later, Mister…?”

“Alexander,” Clint says, taking the napkin with her number scrawled on it. She’s used purple ink, which is a bonus in his eyes. “Harry Alexander.”

“Pleasure,” she says, before she’s gone in a swirl of glitter and lipstick. Clint uses the napkin to wave at Bucky before he tucks it away.

Now the girl is gone, he turns his attention back to the target, bringing the glass of whiskey to his lips. It tastes terrible. God, he hates expensive whiskey, but he’s committed to the role he’s playing. Harry Alexander has extravagant taste, the bastard. Clint Barton just wants some alcohol that tastes like it was brewed in the toilet, _fuck_ , he misses the cheap shitty beer he’s been keeping in his fridge. It’s been too long.

The man in the fur coat turns his nose up at the bottle he’s offered, and the chastised waiter scuttles away immediately to get another from the back room. He doesn’t seem to be doing anything particularly interesting or illegal, and Clint sighs. Downs the glass of whiskey like it’s water, and then gets up. He’s thinking of trying the girls who were giggling at him earlier. They’re less of a challenge than he prefers, but it’s about quantity, not quality.

He looks down to adjust his jacket carefully and as he does he walks straight into a solid wall of muscle.

Clint backs off, hands raised in surrender. “Sorry, man, I was-”

He registers the familiar X-shaped straps on the man’s chest far too late.

“Barton,” Brock Rumlow says with more delight than is warranted for unexpectedly seeing a man you hate.

“The hell are you doing here? Fuck off, Rumlow,” Clint says, his mouth moving faster than his common sense - he doesn’t have any, honestly, but it’s nice to pretend sometimes - as Rumlow barks out something in Russian and swings his fist into Clint’s jaw.

The pain whites out his brain for a minute, sharp and cold, and then he’s twisting into action. He blocks Rumlow’s next punch, throws one of his own and catches the man in the face. It’s a good punch, hard and merciless, but as Clint takes a step back he sees Rumlow reach for the gun in his holster. There’s no time to get anything before he’s riddled with holes and so he goes for the next-best option, melts into the crowds of screaming patrons as a horde of black-clad security officers appear.

“Cover’s been blown,” Clint grits out through the blood in his mouth.

The security officers are Rumlow’s, they have to be. He gets to the staircase and slams the steel door shut behind him, presses his back against it to make sure it __stays__ shut. Hill’s swearing in his ears but he shuts her out, scrabbles around for the box in his back pocket.

“Barton,” Bucky’s voice comes through on the comms, rough. “Target’s heading for the roof. Helicopter’s up there.”

“On it,” he says, sees a heavy-looking drawer and shoves it in front of the door. A second later it bangs and Clint lets out a quiet sigh of relief as the barricade holds before he starts running up the stairs, taking two at a time.

“Barton, hurry the fuck up,” Bucky says. “He’s getting away.”

“Not everyone can be a fucking cardio god, Barnes, suck my dick,” Clint says, as he presses the button on the box and it flips out into a full-sized, perfectly stringed recurve bow. God bless Tony Stark for his weirdly specific inventions.

He gets to the roof a few seconds later, pulling out an arrow that unfolds in the same manner as the bow with a decisive click. The door gets kicked open with a bang and Clint’s already lining up the shot as the helicopter starts rising into the air. He releases, watches it hit the side of the helicopter and crackle, shorting out the power. The helicopter lists to the side and then falls back down to the roof with a crash that echoes through Clint’s hearing aids painfully.

He lowers the bow, and it’s then he realizes he’s alone.

“Barnes?”

“Kinda busy,” Bucky snaps, and then Clint’s scrambling to the left as his partner and Rumlow roll out onto the roof, a twist of violent limbs and snarling teeth.

There’s no way he can feasibly get between them and he’d only had the one arrow, so he’s forced to watch as Rumlow gets his fist in Bucky’s hair and _yanks_ , and Bucky knees Rumlow in the crotch. It’s a solid blow, enough that Rumlow twists and tries to roll away but keeps his grip, dragging Bucky with him. They’re getting a little close to the edge of the roof, and Clint springs into action a second too late as they fall off the brink.

His heart feels like it’s blocking his throat. “Oh, fuck. Fuck. Shit. Barnes.”

It’s cold, up here alone on this roof.

“You gonna just stand there, Barton?”

He blinks. “Bucky? Are you haunting me?”

“I’d appreciate some fuckin’ help here,” Bucky grumbles, and Clint peers over the edge of the roof to see him clinging on with one hand, glove missing but steel fingers shining softly in the moonlight. The relief hits him so hard it’s like running headfirst into a brick wall and he laughs, reaches down to give Bucky a lift up onto the roof again.

“Dropped Rumlow,” Bucky says when he’s on solid ground again.

“Good riddance,” Clint replies, his heart rattling in his chest. He doesn’t care about Brock.

“You get the target?”

“Yeah, I- aw, fuck,” he says, looking back at the helicopter. It’s empty. Fuck, he’d gotten distracted with the other two fighting like he’s still a damn rookie. The door to the roof is still swinging back and forth slowly, but he knows it’s too late. Hill’s going to have a blast with this. His jaw stings. There’s another helicopter approaching, SHIELD insignia printed out in cold white on the side. “Nevermind.”

Clint rubs idly at the blood drying on his lip and looks back at Bucky, who’s breathing hard.

“Eleven,” Bucky says, voice rough like he’s been swallowing gravel.

“Thirteen, baby,” Clint replies with delight, takes the fifty-dollar note that’s passed to him. “Fuck __yeah__ , someone’s eating his weight in grease-soaked shitty burgers tonight.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“Thanks, Barnes. You’re pretty nasty yourself.”

“I really don’t understand you two.”

“I mean, I don’t understand Barton either, I think that’s just how it is,” Bucky says as he leans back in his office chair and kicks his feet up on the desk. His bruises and cuts have already healed, the bastard. Clint sort of wants to smother him with a pillow. Steve seems unbothered, looking between the two of them with an expression stuck between amusement and confusion.

“Oh, you a sore loser, Barnes?” Clint retorts. “Just because people didn’t go for you, now that you don’t look like a sad mop?”

“You look fine with short hair, Buck,” Steve reassures, patting Bucky’s shoulder.

Bucky scowls at him but lets him continue patting. If Clint tried that he’d have his fingers cut off, but it’s funny to smirk at the two of them sitting together like this. Steve and Bucky’s relationship would be cute if it wasn’t so alarmingly codependent. Then again, Clint’s sitting here being the third wheel, so really, who’s the emotionally unstable one? He scratches at the purple band-aid on his cheek and balls his stack of collected phone numbers up, tossing it at the trash.

“I just don’t know why you sweet-talk all these girls and then don’t call _any_ of them,” Steve continues.

“It’s a competition, Steve, the point is to _get_ the phone numbers,” Clint says. “It’s not like I can date someone with an identity I’m using during a mission.”

“You could tell her the truth,” Steve offers.

“God, Rogers,” Bucky groans, cutting in. “We ain’t all romantics like you, y’know. It’s just some fun while we’re bored on missions.”

“Also, I get free food sometimes,” Clint adds brightly. “Mostly I just like seeing the despair on Bucky’s face when I wipe the floor with him.”

“Hey,” Bucky retorts. “I won the time before this by five numbers, you fucker.”

“And before that I was on a three-time winning streak.”

“Only with the shooting. I’m still ahead on the flirtin’.”

Clint sighs, but he’s not wrong. Bucky tends to come out ahead in their seduction-oriented competitions, whereas Clint doesn’t know how to miss a bullseye even when he’s blindfolded or turned around. The suit had probably won him a couple of points that he wouldn’t have gotten otherwise. Clint’s hoping their next mission involves pretending to be a billionaire with expensive taste too.

Steve draws back from Bucky and folds his arms across his chest. He looks between Bucky and Clint like he’s seeing something, Clint doesn’t know what.

It was a hard few months, when Steve was pulled from active duty and Clint was saddled with his former partner. Steve had been unhappy and Bucky had been even worse, a murder-glare like nothing Clint had ever seen before. SHIELD and Hill had assigned him Barnes because he was the only agent senior enough to handle a supersoldier, and even a smile was hard-won at first. Still, Clint thinks Steve is okay with him and Bucky now.

“Besides, we’re off-duty for the next month,” Clint says when they all lapse into silence. “Guess we’ll have to find something else to do.”

“You’re gonna have to get a life, Barton,” Bucky replies, pulling a cigarette out of who-knows-where and lighting up. He’s not supposed to smoke in here, technically, but who’s going to tell him otherwise? The people who possess any authority don’t give a shit. Clint certainly doesn’t, watching the smoke curl around his face, stubble already growing in after a few days. It ruins the pretty twink vibe he’d had when he’d first shaved, and Clint’s _almost_ disappointed.

“Big talk from the man who still lives with his childhood bestie,” Clint says. “At least I have my own place. Hell, I own an apartment complex.”

“You just have that because you were fucking with the Russian mafia, screw you, that don’t count.”

“Oh, suck my dick, Barnes.”

“You wish, Barton.”

Clint doesn’t actually know what he’s going to do with himself now that he’s not doing any missions. It’s punishment for not capturing the target- it happens, sometimes, but because Hill heard them fucking around they’re benched. SHIELD can’t fire them for good, they’re too valuable, but they like bringing back the concept of a time-out. Clint’s been on a lot of time-outs since he became an agent, and not a single one has stopped him from doing anything.

“Anyway, I’ll see you too later, I’m going home. Enjoy your honeymoon.”

He gets out of his chair with some effort and wonders if the diner down from his apartment will be open at… three in the morning. Clint doesn’t want to make his own coffee, he’s tired and lazy. Dorothy and her tar-disguised-as-coffee would be a godsend at this rate. Steve waves to him as he reaches the door, but Barnes is too busy rolling his eyes at Clint’s comment as he stubs out his cigarette in the nearby ashtray.

“When you’re done with your Peppa Pig marathon, they’ve got a new setting at the range,” he says.

“What’s Peppa Pig?” Steve queries.

“A work of art,” Clint cuts in as Bucky’s smile turns predatory. “It’s great, fuck you, Barnes.”

“It really ain’t,” Bucky says. “It’s a fuckin’ dumpster fire, Barton.”

“Whatever. Shooting range tomorrow- today, at six?”

“Sure. Rifles?”

“Handguns,” Clint counters. “Even ground, no bows or rifles. I win, you watch the next season of Dog Cops with me.”

“Deal. Game on.”

“Alright. Seeya, Barnes. Get ready to cry in the face of blistering defeat.”

“Wow, that’s a big word for a guy that couldn’t multiple eight by seven the other day.”

Clint just raises his middle finger as he backs out the room. It pretty much sums up what he was going to say anyway, no speaking required. Steve’s got that indecipherable look on his face again, but Bucky’s just got a challenging glint in his eye. Barnes is pretty good with a Glock, sure, but he’s not called Hawkeye around here for nothing.

Clint’s going to wipe the _floor_ with him.

“I’m going to go into a coma if I don’t _do something._ Fuck, aren’t you bored? Why won’t they cave and give us a mission to do?”

“You’re like that fairy from Peter Pan,” Bucky says with amusement as they enter the cafe. It’s one of those upmarket hipster deals, drinks in glass jars and avocado toast. Clint hates it, honestly, but Bucky blends right in even without his usual manbun. The cashier recognizes them on sight - which should be concerning, really - and rings up their usual, offering a cheerful greeting to Bucky and a barely-concealed look of disdain towards Clint. Clint bravely does not poke out his tongue at the man.

“Was that a gay joke?”

Bucky snorts. “No. I meant that she dies if you don’t give her enough attention.”

“Okay, that’s fair,” Clint agrees. “I do need attention or I die. Oh, Bucky, catch me, I’m feeling faint.”

He does a dramatic swooning gesture, full-on with the back of his hand pressed against his forehead. There’s huge potential to let him fall onto the floor and hurt himself, but Bucky just catches him around the waist with one hand and rights him again. His fingers press against the patch of bare skin between Clint’s jeans and his proudly-labeled ‘SLUT’ t-shirt, and it’s _cold_ even through the thin leather glove.

Clint twists away a second later, and Bucky’s smirking like he knows _exactly_ what the problem is. Fucker probably did it on purpose. Screw him and his goddamn metal arm, he’s a menace. Clint’s filling his boots with jelly the next time he takes them off.

Clint settles down into the booth with his back against the wall and Bucky slides in next to him, their shoulders brushing slightly. It’s comforting, in a way, that they’re equally paranoid about putting their back to the room. They’re in the corner of the cafe, so the whole room’s visible, including the emergency exits they’ve already plotted out. If there’s an emergency Clint’s going for the staff exit first, and if that’s blocked he’s using the loose ceiling panel to get into the roof.

“So,” Bucky says, nudging him. “If you’re so bored, what are you gonna do now?”

“Fuck me, I don’t know,” Clint answers with a sigh. “Kate took Lucky and went to fucking Arizona or some shit, so I can’t even walk the dog anymore. I might take up alcoholism to fix my boredom.”

Bucky snorts. “What a lovely pastime.”

“Well, what were you planning on doing with your free time, oh brilliant Sergeant Barnes?”

“Thought I might take up golf,” Bucky says serenely, and the mental image is just so _ridiculous_ Clint lets out a bark of laughter. Bucky in polo shirts and cargo pants, oh god. And a _flat cap_. The waitress that drops off their coffee and food gives him a strange look as he tries not to laugh, claps a hand over his mouth. Bucky’s smirking in that little self-satisfied way he does when he’s sure he’s hilarious.

“You’d have to dress like _Steve,_ ” he wheezes.

“Y’know what, I’ve changed my mind,” Bucky says. “Maybe I’ll just learn the guitar.”

“That’d be pretty cool,” Clint admits when he can breathe again. “I knew the drums back in my circus days. We could start a two-man band. That’s sexy, right? People love those pilot guys, we could be like them.”

“I think you’re probably too old for teenage girls to be screaming over you,” Bucky says.

“I’m like five years older than you, shut the fuck up,” Clint retorts, smacks at his arm. “At least I’m not a trashy hipster with my plaid shirts and my grande-iced-sugar-free-low-fat-soy-milk caramel macchiato.”

“You’re wearing a shirt that has slut written on it,” Bucky answers dryly.

“At least it’s _honest._ ”

“Excuse me, gentlemen, is this seat taken?”

“Nah, it’s fine, you can- oh. Hi,” Clint says, doing a double-take when he looks at the woman that’s sitting down across from them.

She’s- hot isn’t even the _word._ Red hair falls in careful curls over her shoulders, catching the light and making it look like she’s on fire. Cool green eyes roam over Bucky first and then over to him, and she’s smiling in a way that should be friendly but has an unidentifiable note of danger to it. It reminds him of the way Bucky looks when he spots the last clean mug of coffee. She’s got her drink in a _normal cup,_ too, and Clint realizes he’s staring a second too late.

Luckily, Bucky’s been staring too. He coughs beside Clint and the woman’s smile gets slightly brighter, more amused. She’s in a suit, solid black and immaculate, a far cry from Clint’s terrible t-shirt and Bucky’s ratty plaid. Still, Clint’s curious, because there are other business people in suits here and other spare seats, but she’s chosen to sit here.

“How did you get them to use a proper cup? Do I have to bribe them?”

“I know the owner and he lets me bring cups in,” she says, taking a sip. “Unfortunately, they don’t accept bribery, even when you ask them nicely to make you a plain slice of toast.”

Christ, she’s attractive. Clint feels a little like she’s going to eat him alive, but he’s into that so it’s fine. Bucky seems to remember he’s here as well a second later, straightens in his seat and Clint registers the patented ladykiller smile in his peripherals. Bucky leans closer to the redhead, hair falling in soft curls over his face. Oh, it’s like _that,_ is it?

“Do _you_ accept bribery? Can I get you anything to eat?”

Clint tries to kick him under the table. Bucky doesn’t react at all where the woman can see, but a second later his ankle hooks around Clint’s leg, holds him there so there’s no more kicking as she laughs. “No, that’s alright, thank you. I have to get back to work soon.”

“Where are you working?”

Her gaze drags over to Clint when he asks the question. “Stark Industries.”

“Oh, they did my hearing aids,” Clint supplies cheerfully. “Fancy place.”

“Very much so,” she agrees. Gives him an assessing look for a second, gaze lingering on his chest- for a second Clint thinks she’s checking him out and then he remembers his wardrobe choice. In any case, she seems amused by it, judging from the snort she makes. Then she holds one perfectly manicured hand out for a shake. “Natasha Romanov.”

“Clint Barton,” he returns. He’s got a neon pink bandaid stuck around his index finger, and she runs her fingertips over it curiously. “I’m clumsy,” he offers.

“Cute,” she says and he grins, as she turns to Bucky and shakes his hand as well. “And your friend?”

“James Barnes, ma’am,” Bucky says. “Pleasure.”

It’s funny seeing him put this on with the bedhair and the jeans with holes in them. With the new haircut has come a style Bucky calls ‘artfully messy’ and Clint calls ‘you just woke up, didn’t you.’ He really doesn’t look the part of the gentleman he’s pretending to be but it’s cute, and Natasha seems to think so as well, judging from the soft laugh. Clint’s actually on-par in terms of dress this time, which means they’re on even ground.

“Well, you know Stark Industries, which means you have money,” Natasha says. “Where do you two work?”

“Uh,” Clint answers, very intelligently. It’s not like he can say _hey, so we’re two of the highest-ranking secret agents SHIELD has their meaty little hands on._ He _wants_ to say it, but he’s fairly sure he’ll be sniped within seconds of starting that sentence. It’s the kind of showing off that would be useful, but oh well. He scrambles for another option, panicking.

“We’re male escorts,” Bucky says smoothly, and Clint starts nodding before he registers what Bucky’s actually said.

Hang on.

“Wonderful,” Natasha replies. “I have a lot of respect for your line of work. Not everyone would be able to stomach it, I think.”

“Yeah,” Clint says in a monotone. “We’re very good at what we do.”

“Anyway,” she says, looking at her watch as she stands up, “I’d best go back to the office. It was nice meeting you two. Maybe you can buy me a coffee some other time.”

They watch as she leaves in a swirl of perfume and red curls, the most immaculate woman Clint’s ever seen. Clint wants to know her secret and steal it for himself. As it is, though, he’s a mess, but at least he didn’t lose his brain somewhere in his food. Bucky’s still staring wistfully at the door and Clint slams his elbow into Bucky’s side.

Bucky twists to get away from him and falls onto the tiled floor. The glare he shoots is _phenomenal,_ one of his best murderfaces, but Clint’s pissed off as well and it doesn’t get him anywhere. Bucky’s shirt underneath his flannel is on inside-out. Clint’s tempted to throw his cold coffee on him as well, but people are already starting to stare at them.

“Fucking _prostitutes?_ ”

“You didn’t say anything either!”

“I was trying to think of something _dignified._ Have you been drinking the idiot juice? Goddamn male escorts. Fucking hell, Barnes, and people think I’m the dumb one here. Am I contagious? Nope, can’t be my fault, because I wouldn’t tell the hot lady that we’re _sex workers._ ”

“If I’d said accountancy or data entry or some shit, she would’ve known I was lying. Do you know anything about bein’ an accountant?”

“...no,” Clint says.

“There you go,” Bucky answers with a wave of his hand. “Not so dumb after all.”

“You’re still a grade-a dumbass,” he retorts as Bucky sits back down next to him. “You’re lucky she was cool as well as being like, the hottest woman alive.”

“She really was,” Bucky says, a wistful note in his voice.

“That’s a nice necklace. New? Very fancy.”

Silence.

The dirty alleyway is empty apart from Clint and the heavyset men blocking the route to his apartment. He sighs and sets the bag of groceries on the ground, hoping his juice won’t be tipped over at all during this altercation. The plan to microwave some ramen and watch cartoons for the rest of the afternoon is looking further and further out of reach the longer Clint stands here.

He just wants to go _home._ He hasn’t heard from Bucky in a week and he’s tired and lonely and bored as hell. The man at the back crosses his arms and Clint groans, rubs at his forehead.

“Man, Ivan, I’ve had a really long day,” Clint says. “You think maybe you could hold off on the bullshit for now? Maybe we can reschedule for Friday?”

“No,” Ivan says.

“What if I give you a green apple?”

One of the Tracksuit Draculas advances on him and Clint scrabbles for the dumpster, reaches for the most solid-feeling object his hands touch. He comes up with a banana peel, which isn’t particularly helpful, and then his fingers wrap around the handle of a piece of steel pipe as the Russian yanks him back and throws him at the opposite wall. He bounces off of it with a thump that makes his ears ring and dives into action, ducking the fist that’s swung at him.

It hits the concrete behind him and the Russian grunts, Clint wincing in a little in sympathy as he ducks under the arm and swings the pipe. It hits the back of the man’s head with a too-loud thump and he goes down like a sack of bricks. The second henchman goes down largely the same and Clint gives Ivan a look that’s all danger.

Ivan pulls out a gun.

Clint drops the pipe, puts his hands up in a nonthreatening gesture. “Ivan. Come on, we’re friends, aren’t we? You don’t want to shoot me.”

“Yes I do,” Ivan says. Points the gun directly at Clint’s head and starts to pull the trigger.

Clint squeezes his eyes shut and thinks, briefly, of Bucky. God, he’s going to be so pissed when he finds Clint’s mangled corpse. Hopefully he’ll take care of the building and Lucky when it’s all over. Clint doesn’t actually have a will, but he thinks they’ll know to split his stuff between Katie-Kate and Bucky. It’s not like he’s heard from Barney in years.

The bang is… a lot less loud than he expects.

His head still aches, too, which is a little strange for the afterlife. He cracks one eye open and then the other, taking in the scene in front of him with his mouth open. He might be staring, but that’s perfectly reasonable given the situation.

Natasha drops the crowbar in her hands and steps over Ivan’s motionless body with a decisive click of heels. “Are you alright?”

“I- uh,” Clint says. “You’re. You.”

“I _am_ me,” she agrees, steps up to him. The top of her head is barely level with his chin, but she’s as fluid as the last time he’d seen her. Her hand reaches up to his face and fingers brush over his face, trace up to his forehead. For a minute his startled brain is convinced she’s going to kiss him and he’s about to edge __away__ for some unknown reason, and then she pulls her hand back and it’s red with his blood. “You’re hurt.”

It must’ve been when he’d gotten thrown into the wall. Clint reaches up to touch it himself and winces at the sting, touches the edge of the cut. Natasha pulls a white handkerchief from her pocket and dabs at the wound carefully, then hums thoughtfully.

“Clint, wasn’t it? Do you often find yourself ambushed by large men in tracksuits?”

“...yeah, I do,” he admits, because it’s not like he can lie.

Natasha draws back, seemingly satisfied that she’s helped him. Clint’s still wondering how she even reached Ivan’s head to knock him unconscious. The adrenaline’s still thrumming through him like a phone set on vibrate and he twitches nervously, looks around. None of the Russians are moving, though, and he sighs and sags a little.

“Thanks for that,” he offers weakly.

She gives him a cool smile. “It’s nothing. Are you alright?”

“Better now,” he says, smiling back. It probably looks a little cracked at the edges and crooked, but he’s trying. She already thinks he’s a sex worker, a little blood and murderous Russians won’t hurt his reputation that much. Maybe she thinks Ivan is his pimp or something. Clint watches as she steps around him and picks up his shopping bags, handing them over carefully. His juice is knocked over. It’s leaked all through his groceries and as Clint lifts the bag, he can smell orange all through everything.

Oh, great.

He sighs again.

“Will you be alright getting home?”

It’s funny, really, because he’s a six-foot-something SHIELD agent who’s killed a man with a well-thrown pebble before, and she’s the kind of woman you see in expensive magazines with clothes you certainly couldn’t afford. And _she’s_ offering to protect _him._ Honestly, he has no doubt he’d be in safe hands - whatever Natasha Romanov might look like, she’s awesome.

She’s exactly Bucky’s kind of girl, actually, and that gives Clint _ideas._

Bad ideas, but ideas nonetheless.

The plan falls into place, a little misshapen but fitting. He grins at Natasha, something that he knows the ladies appreciate from their local ruffian bad boy. (No, he’s not a bad boy, but people see the black and the fights and assume.) She raises her eyebrows slightly and he shifts the groceries so the bag isn’t dripping on his feet. He shouldn’t have worn flip-flops to the store.

“Can I get you dinner as a thank you?”

She looks at him thoughtfully. For a minute he’s sure she’s going to say no, and then he’s going to have to go back to making other plans and entertaining himself. He doesn’t want to admit that he’s been listless and heavy since SHIELD grounded him, but it _sucks._ Clint needs something. He needs this, to get back into the flow of things, and he’s ran out of good ideas last Thursday.

“Seven o’clock,” Natasha says. “You pick the place.”

“Oh. Okay, cool. You like Chinese?”

“Hey, Clint,” Steve greets. “Haven’t seen you in a couple of weeks. I’m heading out, but Buck’s watching something on YouTube, go ahead.”

Clint smiles haphazardly at Steve, slides past him to get into the shared apartment. Now he’s listening, there’s a video playing so loud the noise is rumbling through the floorboards. It’s _awful._ Steve seems unaffected by Clint’s lack of social skills, and the front door clicks behind Clint as he kicks his shoes off. He turns down the hallway, finds the door with a red star stuck to the wood and nudges it open with his foot. He’s on a mission.

Bucky doesn’t even look up at him. “Fuck off, Rogers, I don’t want to go to the damn park.”

“That’s no way to speak to I, your loving husband, Steve Rogers,” Clint deadpans.

Bucky does look at him then, eyebrows raising. The video on the laptop - Clint catches someone swearing, an odd grinding noise that he can’t identify - gets paused immediately. Clint’s treated to the sight of Bucky sprawled out in an oversized Led Zeppelin t-shirt and black boxer-briefs that look uncomfortably tight, computer balanced precariously on his chest. He looks like he’s going to grow mould if he stays there any longer, and Clint realizes they’ve been doing exactly the same thing.

This time-out is stretching for far too long.

“What are you doin’ here, Barton?”

“Oh, you know, just missed your ugly face,” Clint says, as Bucky shifts to the side so there’s room for him on the bed. He rolls onto the covers and splays out comfortably, breathes in the scent of smoke and whatever fruity stuff Bucky’s been using in his hair. He hadn’t even realized he’d missed it until now, but he sinks into the mattress and then rolls onto his side so he can look at Bucky properly.

Bucky’s looking back at him curiously. It’s kind of weird to be here, he guesses. They don’t really visit each others’ houses most of the time because they see each other at work and go to various restaurants as a result of lost bets. Clint doesn’t know why he feels so at home here, but he’s comfortable.

“What do you want?”

“Don’t look so unhappy to see me, Barnes,” he answers. “I’ve got a bet for you. A challenge, if you will.”

The spark that appears in Bucky’s eye makes electricity thrum in Clint’s veins. “A challenge?”

“I thought since it’s no fun collecting numbers in Brooklyn as ourselves, we could try something new. Raise the stakes a little, focus on one subject,” Clint says. “Hill said she wasn’t giving us anything for a while, still. She’s got a new agent or something.”

“Hill sucks,” Bucky grumbles. “I’m bored. Give me the challenge.”

“First person to seduce Natasha Romanov successfully wins,” Clint says.

“What’s the definition of ‘successfully seduced?’”

“I mean, when she picks one of us, right? We'll know.”

“Alright,” Bucky answers. “And what are the stakes?”

Clint pauses, has to stop and think for a minute. It’s not a fifty-dollar kind of deal. It’s bigger than that, for the kind of effort they’re going to have to put into this. This is an entire mission, something that’ll require time and thought beyond shooting a target or winking and buying a drink. This is _involved._ Clint’s got the head start but Bucky’s crafty, and if he’s honest with himself Clint wants to see what Bucky will come up with.

“Loser has to be a slave to the winner for a year,” he says decisively. “Food runs, cleaning, being a footstool if the winner wants.”

There’s a thoughtful kind of silence where Clint gets to take in the way the afternoon sun paints Bucky in shades of gold. He’s missing the gloves to hide his steel fingers and they twitch against the laptop as he thinks about what Clint’s suggested, solid silver and shining softly in the light. Clint’s always liked the arm, if he’s honest, and it’s nice to see it out in the open.

“Let me get this straight,” Bucky says. “You want to compete over romancin’ the hottest woman alive, take her on dates and woo her at the same time, make her fall in love? For a personal slave?”

“I’m going to make you deliver me coffee in bed when I win,” Clint says, throwing down his last attempt.

“That’s dumb,” Bucky says. “I ain’t doing that shit.”

“We’re going out on Sunday,” he informs Clint the next day when he shows up at Clint’s apartment.

Clint grins.


	2. Chapter 2

“So? Results?”

“What?”

“How was last night?”

Clint watches as Bucky kicks his legs up on the battered purple couch. It’s mid-afternoon but he’d only gotten up when the door had rung. He’s not a morning person regardless of whether there’s SHIELD business to carry out or not. Clint passes over his extra cup of coffee into gloved fingers and then sits on Bucky’s outstretched shins. It’s not very comfortable. Clint doesn’t have enough padding on his ass for this, really, but he’s not moving. This is _his_ couch, after all.

“It went great,” Clint says, waving one hand in the air. “Chinese food is always awesome. Liu Yang’s changed the recipe for her grandma’s spring rolls and oh man, you’ve gotta try them, it’s amazing. I think she probably added something like-”

“The date, Barton,” Bucky interrupts. “How did _the date_ go?”

“Oh.” Clint goes to shrug, and then stops. It’s supposed to be a competition, after all. If he just bows out without showing any interest Bucky’s going to piss off back to his apartment again and Clint will be stuck back at square one, bored and alone. He needs to make it sound _good_ , appeal to Bucky’s aggressive brand of competitive.

Instead he puts on his best grin, pats one denim-covered thigh. Bucky’s warm underneath his fingers. There’s a slight flex of muscle and Clint squeezes gently, leans back into the couch. It’s more comfortable than Bucky but less comfortable than sitting on the floor, and yet he’s quite happy where he is. He’d stay here forever if he had a choice in the matter.

“It was awesome,” Clint says, and he’s not _lying_. “She’s really cool. I like her, Buck.”

Bucky’s face does something that Clint can’t quite read.

“I was worried she’d be kind of uptight, y’know? But she’s a total badass,” he continues. “And she liked hanging out with me. I got her number, she’s going to text me when she gets another day off. We might go to the wildlife sanctuary. Girls like pumas, right?”

“Right,” Bucky says.

“You’re gonna have to up your game, Barnes,” Clint says, grins and taps his fingers against Bucky’s thigh in a nameless rhythm. The fabric is rough under his hand. “Might’ve lost already.”

“Bull _shit,_ ” Bucky replies, the weird expression fading into something more challenging. “You ain’t got an ounce of romance in your bones, Barton, you’re going down.”

“Going down to the furniture store so I can buy a new couch and make you carry it, maybe,” Clint retorts. “It’s going to be fun, having my own personal slave. Maybe I’ll get you a maid costume. How do you feel about lacy stockings?”

“I don’t think they’d suit you,” Bucky says. “ _When_ I win, I’m gonna make you eat vegetables. No pizza.”

“Aw, come on, that’s just torture,” Clint complains.

Bucky laughs and it’s so, so good to hear that again. Clint’s not going to admit out loud that he missed the idiot, but… he kind of did. The questionable morality of this situation is overshadowed by the feeling of Bucky’s laughter washing over him, warm and soft. He settles in a little more comfortably and fumbles for the television remote, switching the channel over to cartoons. Bucky takes a mouthful of coffee and stays where he is, and Clint keeps his smile faced away where Bucky can’t see it.

“I’m going to take her somewhere fancy,” Bucky says decisively.

“Mhmm,” Clint answers.

“It’s gonna be super romantic.”

“Sure,” Clint says.

“You’re not even going to get a chance to take her out again,” Bucky says. “You watch. I’ll seduce her so hard she’ll forget who you even _are_.”

“That’s the spirit, Bucko. Believe in yourself, even when you lose.”

“We’ll be the hottest couple in New York,” Bucky says, more vehement this time. “I’m going to take her out to all the nicest places. She’s going to fall hopelessly in love with me and _you’ll_ get a front-row seat. How ‘bout that, Barton?”

Clint stops. Sets down his coffee on the table. It feels like his ears are ringing again and he’s not sure if he’s still nursing a concussion from the Tracksuit Draculas. Looks at Bucky, who’s a little red in the face but defiant-looking, lips set in a hard line as he stares Clint down. It’s a very challenging look, and Clint’s brain still stuck on _she’s going to fall hopelessly in love with me_ but his body is used to the special Barnes-brand of needling and replies without any conscious thought required.

“You’re not pretty enough to be this dumb,” he says. “Come on, Barnes, she’s out of your league.”

Technically she’s _exactly_ in Bucky’s league - they’re both unnerving levels of hot. Stark pays his employees double the amount that most of the places in Manhattan do, Bucky’s one of the highest-ranked SHIELD agents around. They both speak Russian too. It’s stupid, though. There’s no way they’re just going to fall in love like that, because Clint’s proposed a dumb bet that doesn’t mean anything.

“If she’s so out of my league, why is she texting me on her break?”

“She does that with me too,” Clint says. “She sent me a _selfie_.”

It had been a nice picture, too, the light catching the green of her eyes. It was a very aesthetically pleasing picture, even with the eyeroll. They’d been talking about which Alien movie was the best one. Clint’s a classic Xenomorph fan, Natasha’s into the new Prometheus series. She thinks it’s ‘thought-provoking.’ Clint’s just unsettled by Robot Michael Fassbender. He’s so _creepy_.

Clint had sent back a similar selfie with his tongue poking out.

He’s interrupted from his thoughts by Bucky standing up, dislodging him from his perch. He nearly falls on his ass and barely catches himself on the table, nearly knocking over his forgotten coffee. Clint glares and Bucky points at him with one gloved hand, slightly threatening and a lot challenging. It would be intimidating if it wasn’t, well, _Bucky_. It’s like seeing Grumpy Cat in real-time.

“I’m going to win this,” he says.

“No, me,” Clint replies automatically. “Fuck you.”

“Fuck _you_ ,” Bucky snaps.

He stalks away then, apparently giving up on their usual back-and-forth. Clint can’t blame him. There’s something dangerous in it this time, some nameless tension pulling them taut and threatening. It’s like standing directly in the middle of a thunderstorm, or in front of a car that’s speeding headlong towards you. Clint doesn’t come up with a clever retort before his front door slams shut, doesn’t get up to watch Bucky go.

_She’s going to fall hopelessly in love with me and you’ll get a front-row seat_ , his brain echoes in Bucky’s slight Brooklyn drawl.

Clint doesn’t know why he feels so unsettled by that.

It’s probably just because he doesn’t want to lose, right?

“Is this legal?”

“If it wasn’t, they shouldn’t have let me in the equipment room,” Clint informs Steve, who sighs and sits back down in his chair.

Clint returns his attention to the screens in front of him. He’s gotten over the weird tension from a few days ago. It was just nerves. Half a bottle of vodka had fixed it, and now he’s back in the game and ready to go. Barnes is going hard on this, so he’s going to raise the bar and go hard as well. A competition is a competition, after all.

He’s going to win this.

Bugging the restaurant Bucky had set reservations for had been amusingly easy. He’d just gone in at lunchtime in a suit, carefully set down the SHIELD-issue spycams and made sure they were invisible. The waiter hadn’t suspected a thing when Clint had commented on their artworks and subtly pressed a camera in there when he had touched the golden frame.

On the screen, Natasha is laughing at something Bucky’s said, raises her wine glass to clink against hers.

Bucky’s cleaned up for this; they both have, Natasha’s in a cocktail dress, but Bucky looks _good_. He’s clean-shaven and dressed in a dark red shirt that’s almost exactly the same colour as Natasha’s hair, which is curled up in an intricate-looking updo. Bucky’s got the glove back on, black and unassuming as his fingers wrap around the delicate stem of the wine glass. It’s red, unsurprisingly. Maybe that’s their theme.

They look good together.

“I was surprised to hear from you,” Natasha’s saying.

“Yeah, well,” Bucky answers, smiling at her. “I couldn’t just pass up the opportunity to take you out. And when I saw you in the cafe again I thought it must be fate, y’know?”

Clint snorts, shoves another handful of chips into his mouth. The crumbs end up all over the keyboard and he feels a little sorry for the poor janitor for dealing with this. He should leave the guy a tip. “Fate my _ass_ , Barnes.”

Steve peers over his shoulder. “Why are you spying on Bucky’s date?”

“I’m keeping an eye out for any foul play,” Clint says through a mouthful of food. More crumbs end up on the desk. “I know you love him for all eternity and that shit, but Barnes is an absolute bastard, he’s cheated before.”

“Cheated on a girl? That doesn’t sound like him.”

“Not on the girl,” Clint replies, exasperated. “He cheats on _me_.”

On the screen, Bucky reaches over to touch Natasha’s hand and she smiles at him. He’s trying to tempt her into having dessert with him and judging from her expression, she isn’t against it. Clint swears a little under his breath. He may also flip Bucky off through the monitor. There’s a distinctly puzzled silence from behind him and Clint glances over his shoulder to find Steve making an expression that looks downright painful.

_Oh_. Right. He doesn’t know. “We’re doing a new competition.”

Steve’s expression clears. “Oh, okay. What does Nat have to do with it?”

“You know her?”

“She works with Tony,” Steve explains. “I’ve seen her deliver documents a few times. She seems like a nice girl. Is she mediating the competition or something?”

“She _is_ the competition,” Clint says.

“She- what?”

The waiter brings out a fancy plate with a dessert that’s mostly cream and strawberries. Natasha offers to share and Clint scowls at the screen, kicks the desk silently. _His_ dinner with Natasha had gone great. They’d had a lot of fun in the little hole-in-the-wall Chinese place, and yet Bucky’s success is making him antsy for some reason. He could fuck with this, send someone over to mess it up or _accidentally_ set one of the cameras on fire so they have to evacuate, but he’s honorable.

It’s very hard to be honorable.

“You’re fighting over her? _Why?_ ”

Steve sounds so utterly _baffled_ by this conceptthat Clint feels a little sorry for him. Not as much pity as the SHIELD janitor deserves, but a fair amount. He swings around in his chair to face Steve, nearly overbalances and falls onto the floor. Bucky’s laugh echoes from behind him, low and delighted, and Clint nearly throws his bag of chips at the monitor. He doesn’t, because he’s hungry, but it’s a close call nonetheless.

Steve’s still looking like he’s just been told they’re going to fly into the sun for kicks. Clint takes pity. “We’re putting our seduction skills to the test. Make the lady fall in love. Winner gets a slave.”

“Why would you want to do that? I know you two enjoy chatting up the ladies for _fun_ , but I thought-”

“You thought we’d rather sit alone at home feeling sorry for ourselves while we're benched? Sorry to burst your bubble, Steve.”

“You can’t just go to the movies like normal people, can you,” Steve says, and it’s not a question. He looks resigned, pressing one hand to his face. It’d be a facepalm on anyone else and Clint’s not entirely sure it’s warranted. It’s not like they haven’t been doing this since the start. Rivalry and snark has been the basis of the Barton-Barnes partnership since day one. They’re competitive, it’s not new. Steve shouldn’t look this tired.

“C’mon, Rogers, you look like someone pissed in your shoes.”

“Sometimes I feel like you two have a language of your own,” Steve says distantly. “A language no one else will ever be able to comprehend.”

“You’re just boring,” Clint says. “It’s because you hang out in the Helicarrier all day, man. Do you even _have_ hobbies that aren’t work-related?”

“Yes,” Steve answers. He doesn’t choose to elaborate, though, and Clint can’t help the smirk that’s starting to grow on his face. Steve doesn’t _quite_ frown at him, but it’s a close call. More of a strongly disappointed aura that’s conveyed through his eyebrows. Clint has no idea how he does that, and he hopes he’s never boring enough to learn. Maybe that’s Steve’s extracurricular hobby.

He sits back down at his desk after that and Clint’s free to swivel around and turn his attention back to the screen.

Bucky and Natasha have gotten up to leave in the time it’s taken to fuck with Steve, and Clint refocuses in time to see Bucky lean in and brush a kiss to Natasha’s cheek. Her lips curl up in a fond smile, soft and warm in the way that’d feel good to watch if it was anyone else. As it is, Clint just feels queasy. He looks down at his food and wonders if it can have an expiry date.

It’d be just his luck to get food poisoning from a bag of chips.

“Interesting. You certainly are full of surprises, aren’t you,” Natasha says. “Do you frequent this establishment often?”

“Yup,” Clint answers, offers a wink to the receptionist. She wave Clint and Natasha through the shiny black lobby without making them pay and Clint gives her a brief thumbs-up before he pushes into the next room.

Natasha’s acquiesced to what was probably a confusing request over text to wear a specific outfit, but it’s no less perfectly put-together. Slim leather jacket, plain black tank top, black jeans that may as well be painted on for how tight they are. Her hair’s caught up in an intricate-looking braid, too, although she hasn’t dyed it black like she’d joked about on the phone. She looks like she’s ready to kill a man and Clint loves it a little.

Clint’s in black too, although his shirt has glitter stuck to it. It’s just as well he’s supposed to be a prostitute, that’s a good enough excuse to be covered in glitter - better than the real reason, which is that he was ambushed by Kate and her (girl?)friend America when he’d left the apartment this morning.

He still doesn’t know what that was about.

There’s a few kids in the room already, and a lot of adults. A man in white is standing at the front handing out vests to everyone, the UV lights making him glow. Natasha looks at him thoughtfully and then back at Clint, who’s turning his hearing aids up a little.

“Do you take all the girls to laser tag?”

“Just the ones I like,” he answers with a grin, and Natasha smirks.

“Alright, you two are on the purple team,” the man says when he gets to them, passing over the vests. “Oh, hey, Clint. Showing your friend how it’s done?”

“I don’t know, she looks like she means business,” Clint says cheerfully as he straps it on. “Maybe she can teach _me_ something.”

“I’ve never played laser tag before, actually,” Natasha says, and when he looks at her she’s blinking innocently at the man. The guys on the other team are watching her with something between curiosity and a predatory stare, and she’s telling the truth but there’s something dangerous in the air. Clint helps her get the vest on, hands her a gun.

She holds it like she knows exactly what she’s doing and Clint’s fucking _delighted_. There’s a game here, a game that the guys aren’t going to be expecting because they’re used to Clint and his cutthroat winning streak, but they’re not used to the tiny redhead next to him. She’s doing this on _purpose_.

“Alright, game starts in five, get out in the field,” the man in charge says, and their vests light up in a colour that would be painful to look at in the real world.

“You ready to kick some ass?”

“Absolutely,” Natasha says. “You know the layout of the place, I take it? Where’s the best starting point?”

Clint was right about Natasha.

She’s a fucking _nightmare_ at laser tag.

A good nightmare, mind you. They fall into sync like they’ve been born just for this. Clint lures a lot of the more experienced players in - Natasha doesn’t seem to be considered a threat, which is a gigantic mistake on the green team’s part. She’s not as good at long-range shots as Clint is, but she’s fast and vicious, and the team falls down one by one to their partnership until there’s no one left and the guy is calling them back inside for round two.

“Not bad for a rookie,” Clint says with a grin. “Kickass, ‘Tasha.”

“Thank you,” she answers, formal as ever, but there’s something bright and alive in her eyes. He’d made a good choice, bringing her here. It’s fun and stupid and a good distraction from his own mind. Natasha’s having a good time taking down the enemy, and she’s showing the kind of skills Clint appreciates wholeheartedly. He likes her watching his back. “I must have a good teacher.”

Clint hasn’t taught her shit, certainly not that move she’d done with the flip. It’s all her, the carefully coiled danger burned into her veins. She’s impressive. He’s going to have to bring her back during competition season. He’s never done doubles before, mostly because _someone_ is a snob who doesn’t really talk to him outside of work competitiveness and the occasional sandwich.

He doesn’t miss Bucky.

“Please split them up,” one girl begs.

Natasha gives her a smile that’s borderline murderous. The man running the place rubs the back of his head nervously and then looks at the two of them. They’re close enough that their elbows are brushing gently, and it’s weird, being next to someone like this and not feeling the cold press of metal on his skin. Still, Clint likes Natasha, so he turns to her and raises an eyebrow questioningly.

“You think you can handle me?”

“I can _try_ ,” Clint offers, because she’s kind of terrifying even to him, but he’s never backed down a day in his life and he’s not starting now. Natasha takes her red vest and winks at him before she disappears into the darkness, gun held aloft like it weighs nothing.

Unsurprisingly, most of the red team get obliterated within minutes. Clint falls into an easy mindless rhythm of duck, aim, shoot, run, shoot that they don’t seem to be able to keep up with - he wonders briefly if it’s cruel, to let loose a highly-trained SHIELD agent in a laser tag establishment against the average joe. But then again, he doesn’t really care. It’s stress relief. He’s enjoying himself.

A particularly precocious woman tries to get him as he rounds the corner and Clint twists out of the way, kicking her gun so it’s pointing up as he shoots her directly in the chest. The lights on her vest die and he gives her a smile that’s mostly teeth and danger and keeps going.

A few minutes later he realizes he can’t see any lights other than his own.

There was a distinct lack of red, he’d noticed, because he’d shot most of the red team, but he’s just now realized he can’t see any purple either. There’s no lights at all. No vests glowing in the darkness of the room, and he glances around nervously. If the red team was all gone, they would’ve been called back. Which means there’s someone around that he’s missing.

Footsteps.

Clint whips around but Natasha kicks his gun to the side in the same move he’d used earlier, twists away when he ducks her shot. He nearly clips her but she’s too fast, and then her thighs are around his ears and she’s throwing him to the ground. Clint’s so stunned he nearly doesn’t move as she levels the gun at his chest, deadly smile illuminated by red.

“The predator has become the prey,” she says, and that’s her mistake.

Clint moves quickly, sticks his fingers under the trigger so she can’t pull it. An annoyed look flashes over her face and she pulls back just enough for Clint to grab his gun with his free hand and shoot her.

The lights on her vest go out and she swears, gets off of him.

Still, she’s a good loser, because she offers him a hand and pulls him to his feet. It doesn’t seem like she’s even putting a lot of effort into it, which doesn’t really surprise Clint anymore. He’s still riding the adrenaline rush, heart hammering in his chest and blood burning in his veins. He hasn’t had this much fun since- he’s not sure, actually. Not since he was benched.

“This is fun,” Natasha says breathlessly. “You have good ideas.”

“Right?” Clint grins. “We should be in the leagues, get Bucky in as well. He’s a fucking brilliant shooter, like you wouldn’t believe, I love watching him get all focused and- uh.”

He forgets, for a minute, that it wouldn’t work. Bucky and Natasha being together is supposed to be a bad thing. But he misses the cold rush of air as they stand up on a roof, Bucky looking steadily through the scope and occasionally rolling his eyes as Clint talks about whatever’s coming to mind. Anything to get one of those rare smirks, sometimes a laugh that rattled Clint right down to his bones and made him feel _right_ again.

Bucky thinks laser tag is stupid anyway.

And he’s supposed to be seducing Natasha. Right. He feels his smile crack a little at the edges and Natasha gives him a look that’s edged with concern, so he sucks it up and plasters on something that’s less worrying. Her left hand is still in his, and it’s warm.

It’s not cold metal, and Clint’s not sure why his brain thinks that’s such a terrible thing.

“You wanna go get milkshakes?”

**CB** : wanna hang out? got new season of brides of beverly hills on dvd

**CB** : I know you nearly threw the tv last time but

**CB** : could be fun?

**CB** : got the shitty vodka for you ;)

**JB** : Can’t.

**JB** : I’m taking Natasha out tonight and I have to go get some things.

**CB** : oh

**JB** : We’ll be busy for the next week. I have plans.

**JB** : Hope you weren’t planning on doing anything with her anytime soon.

**CB is typing…**

Clint gives up on formulating a reply after nothing comes to mind for the next ten minutes. It’s annoying, the ritual of half-typing something clever and then changing your mind, then doing it again, then deleting and trying again until you drive yourself slowly insane.

His phone gets tossed off of the bed, and he can’t hear the thump it makes because he’s tossed his hearing aids as well. Mostly he just wants to say ‘fuck you,’ but he doesn’t even have the willpower to be snarky about it. It might be a little too sincere if he texts that right now. He doesn’t know what to do, now. Bucky’s really going full-board with this. They normally do, with their bets and challenges, and yet it’s missing the playfully fun vibe that used to be there.

There’s a tension there, vibrating under Clint’s skin and Bucky’s words, and he doesn’t know what it means and he’s not sure what to do about it.

Bucky’s passionate about winning, sure, but he’s not normally quite this level of heated and it makes the vibrating worse. It’s almost lashing out instead of teasing, and Clint rolls onto his side and presses his cheek against the scratchy material of the pillow. He’d run out of fresh laundry yesterday and he’s too keyed-up to do it, to go out and do anything besides roll around in his bed and think about this stupid challenge with Bucky.

Maybe Bucky’s _really_ into Natasha.

They look good together, it’s not really that much of a shock. Aesthetically pleasing, someone more eloquent might say. Clint just knows that Natasha’s a model of some kind and Bucky’s… _Bucky_. Anyone would be lucky to have him by their side.

And now Clint doesn’t get that at all.

God, he’s fucking restless. The buzzing under his skin doesn’t stop, and he rolls onto his back again, stares up at the ceiling again.

“Fuck,” he says to the ceiling, conversationally. The ceiling does not reply to his swearing, probably because it doesn’t currently possess a mouth. If it __was__ sentient, Clint would feel a little less comfortable slipping his hand into his sweatpants and getting his fingers wrapped around his half-hard dick.

He doesn’t really think about anything at first, just leans into the sensation and closes his eyes. His other hand trails up his shirt, drags back down with his nails hard enough that his breath catches.

Then his brain conjures up vague images, indistinct pictures of bruised-red mouths and wandering hands. Clint’s happy to go along with it, sinks further into the daydream as he twists his hand, sucks in a harsh breath through his nose. Imagines fingers trailing up the inside of his thighs, pushing his shirt up so sharp teeth can press vivid marks into his skin. He squirms against the sheets, briefly wishes for the solid weight of someone holding him down, heavy muscles and hard cock pressing against his.

Clint hasn’t been with a guy for _years_ \- come to think of it, he hasn’t been with a lot of girls, either, but his dick is firmly on-board with this image.

He arches up into his own grip a little, throat bared and a tiny little gasping noise escaping his lips. Licks his hand and gets it wet, wraps it back around his dick. _God_ , if this was someone else’s hand. Someone else watching him get worked up and needy with clear blue eyes, lips caught in his teeth.

_Hell, you’re really into this, aren’t you? You dirty fucking boy, Barton._

Clint’s breathing is coming quicker now, his hand moving faster.

_Enjoying yourself? Like putting on a show for me, looking like that?_

“Fuck,” he pants, feels the pleasure roll up his spine hot and insistent. He would _love_ to put on a goddamn show, get himself hard and sweat-damp and begging for the slightest touch. Even _more_ than that, though, he wants a gun-calloused hand on him, a self-satisfied smirk pressed into the bare skin of his hip with a mouth that’s been bitten red.

_C’mon, Barton, you can do better than that. You want it so bad, you gotta show me._

It’s almost like he can _taste_ the words, feel the stubble scraping the sensitive parts of his inner thigh. It burns hotter than lava, has him twisting restlessly in the sheets and wishing desperately that it was real and he was feeling that slight Brooklyn drawl against his skin. He’s leaking now, fingers slick with spit and precum and his chest feels like it’s been hollowed out and filled back up again with hunger and _need _,__ so strong he can’t think.

_Look at you, all desperate. All those people you flirt with, all those pretty girls, and none of them get you. Just me. You’re mine, Clint._

“God, _yeah _,__ ” Clint says out loud, almost pleading. He’s faintly aware he’s shaking, fingers trembling helplessly on his cock as he imagines cool metal on his hip, steel fingers digging into his hip and leaving bruises. He _wants_ it, god. He wants that casual possessiveness, bruises up his skin and hot mouth pressed up to his throat.

_Come for me. Make a mess, sweetheart,_ the voice says, firm and hot and Clint can’t help it, he’s swearing and coming, every muscle in his body on fire.

He opens his eyes a few minutes later, stares at the ceiling again. Wipes his hand off on his sweatpants. Thinks about taking a shower or finally going to the optometrist like he was meant to months ago, because he can’t read the newspaper that well anymore. The room is still eerily silent, empty-feeling because his hearing aids are still on the floor somewhere.

Clint thinks about his aching muscles.

He thinks about Kate promising to drop Lucky off later in the week.

He does _not_ think about how he just jerked off thinking about Bucky Barnes.

The weird tension is still there.

“I’m definitely sure _this_ isn’t allowed.”

“Fuck off, Steve,” Clint says. “It’s not like the cameras weren’t already there.”

“Why were there _already_ cameras in Natasha’s house?”

“Bucky put them there,” he answers.

It’s not like Clint’s blind, he’d noticed the little SHIELD-issue cameras the minute he’d entered Natasha’s house a few days ago. When he’d checked in at the office, they’d already been wired up to the monitors.

Clint wonders if Bucky had enjoyed watching them play Scrabble. The thing about Clint playing Scrabble is that he’s not particularly _good_ at Scrabble, and Natasha had cheerfully wiped the floor with him. It hadn’t been that romantic. If Clint’s honest, he hadn’t _wanted_ it to be. It was nice just hanging out with her, even if he’d accidentally spilled wine on his shirt and had to take it off to save it from stains - that was Natasha’s idea, not his.

He’s still wearing the shirt she’d gave him- soft pastel blue, tight over his chest and shoulders. It’s almost as tight as the shirts Bucky wears under his stupid flannels.

“Is _that_ what he was watching yesterday? Christ, you two.”

“I’m not letting him pull any funny business,” Clint says, tips out a careful measure of dirt-grade vodka into his Disney Princess mug. It’s got Merida printed on it. He wanted a Kida one, but they don’t sell her because she’s not one of the _mainstream_ Disney characters. Clint’s going to boycott Disney one of these days.

“You’re both- no, nevermind,” Steve says, sounds resigned. “My therapist says I have to stop getting involved in things like this.”

“Things like _what?_ ”

“Like this entire situation, Clint,” Steve sighs. He leaves a second later and Clint shrugs to himself, goes back to watching the screen. The vodka burns down his throat like liquid fire but it doesn’t stop him from pouring more as he watches Bucky and Natasha walk down the hallway. They’re wearing formal clothes again, unsurprisingly. How come he doesn’t dress like that any other time? Clint hadn’t even been aware he’d owned a tie before this.

“Care for a nightcap?”

“Sure,” Bucky says. “What’ve you got?”

“Oh, a bit of everything,” Natasha answers with a wave of her hand. “I have some Beluga Gold Line, is that satisfactory?”

“That’d be great, gorgeous,” Bucky replies, and as she walks over to the liquor cabinet with a swish of her hips, Bucky takes a few steps back, fiddling with the glove over his left hand. He backs up to a vase of red flowers that Clint had dropped off a few days ago silently, sidles up to it. There’s a strange expression on his face, something _suspicious_ , and Clint doesn’t understand what he’s up to until the top-left monitor turns to static and then goes black.

Doesn’t matter. He wasn’t even watching that one. There’s still five other cameras that are transmitting just fine. There’s no cause for concern yet, and Clint watches with vague interest as Natasha removes a fancy-looking bottle and shot glasses.

Except that Bucky moves to the one on the television and crushes that too.

“What are you doing, Barnes,” Clint breathes, leans in closer. Why is the guy destroying the cameras _he_ set up? Unless there’s something he doesn’t want Clint to see, because he knows Clint would’ve spotted the camera and gotten ahold of the feed.

The third camera goes a second later and Clint feels ice run cold down his spine.

Bucky’s been determined to shove whatever progress he makes with Natasha in Clint’s face. Those cameras aren’t cheap. If Bucky’s destroying them, he’s destroying them for a specific reason. He’s been fighting hard for this, which means that if he’s doing something that requires the cameras to be gone, it’s something _serious_.

Clint’s still staring, frozen, as the fourth camera goes.

Natasha’s pouring out the vodka into the glasses, careful and neat, her face set in fond amusement. Her expression doesn’t set off any alarm bells in Clint’s brain but Bucky’s does. Bucky’s face is - Clint doesn’t know what that look means and he _really_ doesn’t like it. It’s similar to the feeling he’d gotten when he’d been signing the divorce papers with Bobbi, that bone-deep dread filtering into his blood and staying there.

She passes a shot glass over to Bucky and her fingernails are solid black, shining in the light from the dining room. He downs it instantly and Clint leans forward, eyes fixed on the crisp colour of the screen. Bucky’s shucking off his suit jacket, laying it carefully over a chair as Natasha refills his glass.

“You’re really okay with it?”

“Of course. It’s a wonderful prosthetic,” Natasha says, and Bucky takes off his glove as well.

Clint had realized in a distant sort of way that Natasha would probably have learned about Bucky’s left hand sooner or later, but it’s a different thing to see _evidence_. Bucky only gets the arm out around Clint and Stark, from Clint’s knowledge - he uncovers it around Steve rarely, because even though they’ve been friends since childhood Steve gets a little _weird_ about the prosthetic.

Bucky had said one night that Clint’s the only person he feels truly comfortable showing it to, just because Clint doesn’t have any negative or borderline obsessive feelings towards it. Clint just _likes_ the arm, because he likes Bucky.

The fifth camera goes.

Onscreen, Bucky flexes metal fingers and Clint’s gaze is drawn to it automatically, even as the tension rides up his spine.

He’s expecting it, when Bucky leans in close to Natasha’s face and uses the position to crush the sixth and final camera. Bucky’s obviously gotten distracted here, because instead of going black like all the other screens have, it goes to static. Clint stares, frozen, as there’s a distinctly wet sound, clear over the weak crackling.

“Help me unzip my dress, James?”

Oh no.

Oh no, no no.

“Sure,” Bucky says. “You want to… do it in the bedroom so you can hang it up?”

“That would be very helpful,” Natasha agrees. There’s a rustling sound that Clint can barely make out over the rush of blood in his ears, and he’s stuck staring blankly at the static as there’s a thump and another rustle. Bucky says something in a low buzz that Clint can’t hear, and then the final camera goes black and dies completely.

Clint stares at the screen.

The screen does not miraculously come back to life.

Clint grabs for the bottle of vodka.


	3. Chapter 3

It’s quiet in the SHIELD office. Given, it’s six in the morning and technically work starts at ten, but nonetheless. The four-person section belonging to the quartet of Rogers/Barton/Barnes/Wilson is currently occupied by only Steve, who’s nearly inaudible in the empty room. There’s a faint burble as he turns on the small desk fountain and it powers up. It was a gift from Fury, who had referred to it as a distraction from Steve’s need to go and involve himself in the latest SHIELD drama.

That is, it would be quiet in the SHIELD office, except that Steve’s paperwork has been sidetracked by the arrival of one James Buchanan Barnes. The burble of the fountain is quickly muffled as booted feet stomp across the office.

“So you spent the night at Natasha’s?”

“None of your business, Steve.”

“You use the SHIELD equipment from my area, it’s my business then,” Steve answers. “Anyway, come on, Buck. You’re my best friend. I didn’t even _know_ you were stepping out with Natasha, when did this start?”

“None of your business,” Bucky retorts, sounding disgruntled. “Go _away._ ”

“You came to visit _me,_ Bucky,” Steve says, and it’d be a snarky and biting comment on anyone but Golden Boy Steve Rogers. “I’m the only one working here. You and Clint don’t work here right now, and Sam has been in DC for the last few months. I’m the only one here.”

Bucky grunts. “Actually, I just wanted the clothes from my locker. Apartment’s too far.”

“Too far from _what?_ Where are you going?”

“Out,” Bucky says, flat.

Steve doesn’t seem to heed the warning thrumming through Bucky’s voice. There’s a hypothesis around the SHIELD offices that he doesn’t comprehend the concept of danger at all. That’s Steve Rogers for you, though. That particular rumour was mostly born out of him jumping out planes with no parachute, though, and not navigating conversations with his secretive, grumpy best friend. Either way, his knee-jerk reaction seems to be to jump in head-first.

“Wait, Bucky, come on,” Steve says. “Please talk to me.”

“What do you want to talk about, Steve?”

“This… thing, this situation with you and Natasha and Clint,” Steve says, voice serious. “How far is it going to go, exactly?”

“That’s-”

“-none of my business, yes, I know, Buck.”

“Then why are you still _talkin’,_ Steve? Fuck off. I’m going. I’ll see you later.”

There’s a long pause then, filled with tension that seems to simmer in the air. It’s quiet, and then Steve lets out a heavy sigh that’s full of disappointment and there’s a thump that sounds suspiciously like his forehead hitting the desk. A locker door slams, and then the heavy footsteps echo back through the office, back to the exit. The sound itself feels threatening, somehow.

“Also, get out the fuckin’ vents, Barton, you’re too big for that shit,” Bucky says as he’s leaving.

Clint drops down from the vents and Steve nearly falls out of his chair. There’s a much louder than he expects from the action, a lot louder than it had been getting up in the vents. It’s not a very graceful drop, and he topples over all the trinkets on Sam’s desk trying to stay on his feet. Something lands on his socked foot and he squints down at it, but his eyes won’t focus long enough to figure out what the object actually is.

“Fuck,” he says, decisively.

“How do you even _fit_ up there? You’re taller than me,” Steve says.

“’m a clever boy, Stevie,” Clint answers with a very knowledgeable nodding motion. Then the room starts spinning when he does that, so he has to stop a second later. He leans sideways against Sam’s desk instead, trying to look casual, but his feet start sliding sideways and he ends up half-laying upon it instead. He turns his head to look at Steve properly and ends up sliding backwards again, quietly cursing the slippery wood.

Steve’s watching him with something between bewilderment and amusement, and he gets out of his chair when Clint’s knees hit the floor.

“I’m fine, Steve,” Clint says - slurs, a little bit, but only a _little_ \- when Steve gets his big hands under Clint’s armpits and lifts him back onto his feet. It doesn’t really work, because the minute he lets go Clint just slides back to the floor again like a soggy noodle. It feels like all of his _bones_ have melted.

“You okay, Clint?”

“I think my bones have melted,” he informs Steve, who laughs softly and helps him onto the couch they have.

“You know, I was wondering where all these bottles came from,” Steve says. “Did you even leave the office last night?”

“Nope,” Clint answers cheerfully, flops back against the couch.

“Maybe I’ll get more answers out of you,” Steve says thoughtfully, and Clint wonders where his other sock went. Did Steve steal it from him? No, Steve’s nice, he wouldn’t do that. Steve is a good person, unlike him. “Clint, what’s going on with Bucky?”

“Bucky’s an asshole,” Clint says, feels the edges of his smile turn down. He doesn’t want to talk about Bucky. He _misses_ Bucky. The first time they’ve spoken in person for what feels like centuries, and it’s just him telling Clint to get out of the vents. It’s Bucky’s fault he was _in_ the vents. He doesn’t remember exactly _why_ it’s Bucky’s fault, but he still knows that it is.

He slumps down in the couch and presses his face against the leather, inhales and scowls when he smells cigarette smoke and fancy cologne. Fucking Bucky Barnes.

“-so I can’t take you home right now,” Steve’s saying when Clint realizes he’s being spoken to. “Kate’s back in town, isn’t she? Clint?”

“Hrmgh,” Clint says, continues to make faces at the couch.

“Hey, Kate, can you pick up Clint? He’s a little drunk and I can’t get away from my paperwork right now - no, he and Bucky are a little… that won’t work. I’m sorry, can you just take him home? Yes, I know he’s not your responsibility but I don’t know any of his other friends- what? Of course he has other friends.”

“I don’t have friends,” Clint interrupts, words muffled by the leather. It tastes bad. “Jus’ people who put up with me.”

“I’m your friend, Clint,” Steve says. “No, Kate, he can’t take a taxi, he won’t be able to pay the driver properly. I’m not sure he can even focus long enough to remember his address. Thank you so much, I really appreciate it.”

When he opens his eyes next, it’s to dark hair and a scowl.

“-Bucky?”

“Ew,” Kate says. “Did you hit your head? I’m not driving you to the hospital, you already threw up in my car.”

Clint blinks a few times, rubs at his aching head and tries not to give in to the urge to become a cocoon. Kate leans back out of his face and now she’s not so close, it’s definitely her. Maybe he did hit his head somewhere along the way. His memories of the last night are fuzzy, indistinct, and now all he’s left with is a headache and aches in places that shouldn’t be aching.

At least he’s fairly sure he didn’t leave the SHIELD offices and go out on the town.

Kate hands him a glass of water and he takes it, sits up in bed. She’s looking at him with something between annoyance and resignation, but she still gives him the pills as well. Clint decides on the spot that she is his favourite, as he downs the lot and then groans. God, he feels like a dog shit that was on the street and got run over a few times.

“Thanks, Katie-Kate,” he says.

Kate shrugs. “I was in the neighbourhood. America was busy. Anyway, you can buy me a pizza as thank you, and I brought your trash dog back.”

Lucky, apparently deciding that’s his cue, jumps up onto the bed as well. He steps on Clint’s foot, then his knee, then nearly gets him in the crotch as well. That earns a cringe from Kate _and_ Clint, as Clint’s promptly assaulted by wet doggy kisses and he can’t shove down the instinctive smile, even as he wrestles Lucky to the side so he can still look at Kate. She’s watching the two of them with visible amusement.

“He’s your trash dog too,” Clint replies.

“Mostly yours. Like, at least sixty percent,” she says as she gets her fingers in golden fur and scratches. Lucky wags his tail happily, paws at Clint’s face. He lets out a bark after a second and Clint winces as the sound reverberates through his aching head. Fucking _ow_. It’s like being brained with a sledgehammer - and Clint would know about that, he’s had it happen before.

“Why’d you get trashed at SHIELD, anyway? There’s plenty of bars around,” Kate says as she rubs at the bridge of her nose.

“It was convenient,” Clint answers with a shrug. “I had the alcohol there already.”

“This got something to do with Bucky?”

“...maybe,” Clint admits, because it’s _Kate_. She’s seen him at his worst, right down in the bottom of the dumpster - literally, once - and she still comes back. He can suffer through a conversation with her about this. She’s not a paragon of purity like Steve, doesn’t put him to shame or make him feel like he should be better. She’s just Kate.

“Did he put beer in your shoes again?”

“No,” Clint says. “SHIELD benched us.”

“That sucks, buddy,” Kate replies, pats his knee. Clint loves her. Lucky’s staring into his face lovingly with his one good eye, woofs at him again. Clint cringes but keeps patting him through the pain, tries to get him to sit down on the other side of the bed and not on his chest. “What’s that got to do with it?”

“After a week we just sort of… started doing our own shit,” Clint says. “He went and did whatever it is he does when he’s not working - I think he just watches Youtube, honestly - and I was getting stuck sitting on the couch all day, and then this girl saved me from Ivan, and I thought hey, there’s an idea.”

“With Bucky?”

“I started this bet,” he starts. “This stupid challenge. Said that whoever could seduce the girl could win.”

“And?”

“I don’t know,” Clint says tiredly, feels more than a million years old, like the dust is getting in his veins and making everything clogged and achy. “He took up the challenge. I think he might be winning. Guess it bummed me out more than I thought.”

“He’s banging this girl? Dude.”

“I don’t know,” Clint says again. Runs his hands in Lucky’s fur like there’s answers hidden somewhere. Kate’s washed him at some point, because it’s nice and glossy, soft under his rough fingers. “I got all fucked up last night about it, for some reason. I think I climbed into the vents to cry, I don’t really remember it.”

“You don’t know why you got fucked up about it?”

She sounds incredulous. Clint turns his frown to her, realizes she’s wearing a cocktail dress. It looks pretty expensive, made of some ridiculous fabric that shimmers and changes colour in the light. Was she going somewhere important before this? He’s not sure how he feels about Kate dropping important things to get his ass back to his apartment. Still, it’s a little late to be guilty about it now.

“Clint, you’re jealous,” Kate says.

“I’m- no I’m not.”

“Did you only start getting upset when they got more serious?” Kate sighs, presses her hand to her face. She’s painted her nails purple. There’s little arrows etched on them in white. Clint should probably be more upset about her stealing his signature colour - also, his bow and his dog - but hey, now there’s more purple in the world.

Clint thinks about her question. Thinks about it some more. He’s been even more shitty and irrational than usual, and why? Because of Bucky and Natasha. That sick feeling only started showing up when… “Aw, fuck.”

“Exactly,” Kate says. “But hey, it’s not a lost cause. They’re not married, right? You can still go talk about your feelings and all that shit. Here, I’ll get you a shirt that doesn’t have something crappy written on it.”

“I’m bad at feelings,” Clint says, but Kate ignores him.

She rustles around in his wardrobe, comes up with a soft grey button-up that Clint’s never seen before. He gets out of bed with a hopefully unnoticeable groan of pain, takes the slacks she hands him. He doesn’t recognize these, either, and it should be concerning that he apparently has a fancy wardrobe he doesn’t know about but it’s pretty on-par for his life. Kate watches as he puts them on, hands on her hips and eyes curious.

When he’s done she steps up to him and reaches up to his hair with some difficulty, ruffles it around until she’s happy. Clint has no idea what he looks like, but he trusts her. Kate knows what she’s doing when it comes to looking good.

If she trusts him, he can trust himself. Just a little.

As he’s getting into the Uber Kate leans on the door, leans in close. “Don’t fuck this up. It’s the most important relationship you’ve got,” she says.

“It’ll be easy, right? Just gotta tell Natasha that I love her and win the bet,” he says.

The car drives off then, and Kate yells something at him but Clint can’t hear it over his headache and the noise of the vehicle.

It was probably just encouragement, anyway.

****CB**** : where are you?

****NR**** : You know that cafe we met at?

****NR**** : Do you want me to order a drink? I’ll see if I can get you a proper cup this time. ;)

****CB**** : that’d be great thx

****NR**** : We’ll be in the corner with the blue flowers. :D

Clint’s distracted from Natasha’s admittedly adorable use of emojis by the _we_ part of that text. The Uber driver’s talking about the newest Iron Man sighting somewhere in Paris and he tunes them out, goes back to looking at his phone. She’s got company, apparently. The last time they’d gone out together she’d mentioned that Bruce, who owned the cafe, liked to get her opinions on the floral arrangements. It’s probably just him.

He gets out and the Uber speeds off, thankfully paid for by Kate. God, Kate’s so _responsible_ for a kid that’s- what, nineteen? Clint realizes he has no idea how old his companion is. That’s bad, right? He straightens up his tie and takes a deep breath. Right.

It makes sense, now Kate’s pointed it out to him. He’s only felt sick and jittery and uncomfortable when he’s thought about Bucky romancing Natasha. That’s what’s been making him upset, he’s sure of it now. And the easiest way to get rid of it is to talk to Natasha, confess his love and get this over and done with. Once it’s all over he’ll be able to sleep without thinking of Bucky kissing her. Maybe SHIELD will take him back and life will go back to normal at last.

Clint pushes open the front door and listens to the jingle, turns his head to the spot Natasha had indicated.

She’s there, dressed in a soft grey jacket and dark jeans, hair in a loose ponytail. There’s an extra mug next to her, and a person across from her in a slightly rumpled button-up. Clint thinks it’s probably Bruce as he approaches, still a little unfocused from the rough night he’s had. He forgets, for a minute, that Bucky’s cut his hair.

“Hey, Tasha,” he says. Sits down heavily and grabs for the coffee, swallows it all down in one go. Natasha snorts softly and then Clint looks up.

Bucky looks _terrible._ The shadows under his eyes are darker than Clint’s ever seen them, and his hair’s all flat on one side like he’s been laying on it all day. The clothes are definitely clothes from the day before, maybe even longer, and he’s slouching forward so far he’s nearly touching the surface.

Clint makes the mistake of making eye contact and Bucky’s lips curl down and he looks away, out the window where there’s a man in a hot dog suit playing around. The knee-jerk reaction is to grab his hands, say something stupid to make him smile again, like when they’re out on missions and he starts remembering the things he won’t tell Clint about.

He can’t do that, though.

“I’m going to the bathroom, excuse me,” Natasha says.

Clint wants to protest, but she’s already moving, shifting over him and then to the door that’s proudly announcing that the toilet is for female deer.

Leaving him alone with Bucky.

He’s tempted to run - to get away and hide somewhere, never to be found again, and he wonders where it all went so wrong that _that’s_ his reaction to being alone with Bucky Barnes. Clint remembers clawing for free time with him, always needling, always poking, always trying to get him to come over and hang out and smile at him.

It’s silent, for a moment, and then he speaks.

“So,” he says. “Late night?”

Bucky grunts. “More fun than yours.”

“Right,” Clint says, feels that now-familiar twist of anger and fear in his gut. “Well, I’m going to confess my feelings, so if you could go have fun elsewhere, that’d be great.”

“ _Feelings?”_ Bucky snorts. “What feelings?”

“Something you wouldn’t know anything about, clearly,” Clint snaps. “Since your strategy is just to _slut_ your way into her life to win. You think you’re classy, Barnes? Bat your pretty little eyelashes and the girls come running?”

That gets him a reaction. Bucky sets down his coffee jar with an ominous _crack,_ the look in his eyes pure fury. Clint would flinch away but he’s angry too, pissed off at this situation and Bucky’s words and _Bucky_ himself. Instead he meets the glare head-on and clenches his fists, digs his blunt nails into his skin and wishes it stung a little more than it does.

“I ain’t the one about to tell a gal I love her when I clearly _don’t,”_ Bucky snarls.

“You don’t know _shit,_ Barnes. Think you’re the feelings champion, do you? Fucking prick.”

“At least I don’t have the sheer _stupidity_ required to live a life like you do,” Bucky growls. “Did the circus teach you how to be an idiot or were you born with that shit? Is it a Barton special?”

“Takes one to know one,” Clint snaps. “Did you lose your brain along with the arm, is that it?”

That seems to snap something in Bucky. It’s taking it too far, Clint _knows_ he’s taken it too far and yet he’s still shocked when Bucky’s fist catches him on the jaw. It rocks him back, the pain blooming sharp and hot on his face as he instinctively twists out of his seat. The anger burns even hotter than the pain does and before he thinks about it he’s taking a swing as well, punching him directly on his pretty fucking face.

Bucky looks stunned, eyes wide as Clint rides the momentum, hooks a chair with his ankle and throws it at Bucky.

Bucky blocks, shoves it aside as he swings at Clint again, teeth bared. “Fuck _you,_ ” he hisses, uses the metal arm to grab Clint by his shirt and slam him down onto the tiles. The back of Clint’s head stings hot and bright and he sees static for a second, gasps for air.

“Girls let you fuck ‘em with that mouth?” He barely manages to get the words out, gets his fingers around a low-hanging pot and smashes it into the side of Bucky’s head. It disorients the man enough that he gets his thighs around Bucky’s hips, rolls them over so he’s on top. Someone’s screaming in the background but all he can focus on is this.

Clint punches him again, lips drawn back in a snarl as Bucky bites the arm he’s using to support himself. It fucking hurts. Clint yanks his arm away.

“What even is your fucking _problem?_ Why is this- why do you-”

“My problem is _you,_ ” Bucky snaps, lips bloody. “You and your fuckin’ bet.”

“What, you want to fall in _love_ and have twelve adorable little Russian babies? Like hell,” Clint spits, ugly words spilling out like the dam's broken. He's just hurling whatever ammunition he can grab at within the scrambles recesses of his brain. “You’re too good for her. Just give up.”

“And let you-? Fuck _no,_ fuck you.”

“You gonna get upset if I pull the same shit you did? What if I sleep with her too, huh? Show her a real good time, make it all hot and loving and sweet. Maybe I’ll make pancakes in the morning, take them to her in bed.”

Clint doesn’t know what he says, but Bucky’s face goes paler than he’s ever seen it. The anger’s gone and he looks _scared_ for some reason Clint can’t identify, and Clint can’t hit him when he looks like that. He pauses, feels suddenly worried because that’s not an expression he’s ever wanted to see from Bucky in any capacity. It feels _horrible,_ and he lets his guard down for just a second too long because Bucky recovers quicker and punches him again.

“You two need to leave right now,” a stern voice says above them. “I’m calling the police.”

Clint’s holding his nose and trying to catch the blood trailing down his face, but he still gets up obediently. He’s not angry enough to kick Bucky on the way, even though he does think about it for longer than is necessary. Bucky scrambles to his feet and he’s got a split lip, soil from the plant in his hair. He looks like a mess, wipes angrily at the blood on his chin and smears it on his face some more.

Christ. _Clint_ did that.

“I wasn’t aware you needed parental supervision,” Natasha says from behind him, and Clint turns to look at her. She glances past him at Bucky and then reaches up to Clint’s face, carefully pulls his hand away so she can get a better look. Her fingers press down firmly and he winces but doesn’t pull away, acquiesces to her careful examination.

“’s not broken,” he says.

“No,” she agrees. “It’s not. But you still need ice. Come back to my place, it’s closer.”

He’s still pissed off, amongst the confusion, which is why he agrees immediately. It’s sort of vicious, the way he says “yes” to her, and it’s sure to get a reaction.

There’s a sound from behind him and Clint only gets a split-second look at the mixture of anger and what he thinks might be _fear_ before Bucky’s fleeing, slamming the door on the way out. He looks back at Natasha and her face is carefully neutral even as she tracks Bucky down the road with her eyes, fingers resting lightly on his wrist.

“Your shirt’s torn,” Natasha says as he makes himself at home on her couch. “I suppose you can steal another one of mine for now. I still want the other one back.”

Right. His shirt. Clint looks down at it blearily, takes in the spatter of blood and the rip in the shoulder. When had that happened? Oh man, Kate’s going to kill him, he doesn’t have that many nice shirts left. Bucky would say that he’s a disaster on two legs - ugh, Bucky. Fucking Bucky Barnes. He’s so _angry_. Why does it have to be like this?

What went wrong?

Natasha comes back with a hoodie that looks about three sizes too small for him. Clint just stares at it blankly, unable to do anything but feel a lot of emotions at the same time. It’s like his brain can’t decide whether to be angry or sad or just plain _confused_. He’s all three of those things and more, and it’s too much. He’d gone into this with a plan and now it feels _wrong_. He snaps out of it when Natasha leans closer, slim hands on his chest.

He _should_ sleep with her.

Bucky would hate it, based on his earlier reactions, and he deserves it. Clint should do it. He should piss him right off, burn whatever’s left between them and hold that crown high on his head. She’s unbuttoning his shirt carefully with deft fingers, making quick work of it.

Natasha’s face is _right there._

The panic and dread he’s been feeling doesn’t go away.

“I can’t do this,” he says, realizing. “Oh, fuck, I can’t do this.”

Natasha watches him with steady green eyes as he pulls back, folds her hands in her lap. God, he can’t do this. The image of Bucky’s bloody face keeps playing over and over in his brain relentlessly and he can’t think of anything else. What the hell is he even _doing?_ This wasn’t about Natasha. This wasn’t ever about Natasha.

Christ, he’s fucked up.

He pulls his knees up to his chest like it’ll somehow protect him from his own bad decisions. It doesn’t, but as he presses his burning eyes against his slacks, he starts thinking about the _stupid_ bet. The dumb goddamn bet.

“I just started this stupid fucking thing so he’d hang out with me again. I missed him,” Clint says, feeling more pathetic than ever. Natasha’s hand lands in his hair and strokes through it carefully, and he leans into it, doesn’t bother to button up his shirt again. He doesn’t think Natasha cares anyway, based on the way she presses a gentle kiss to the side of his head without saying anything. It doesn’t feel anything more than platonic.

He should take the broken cameras on the way out.

“You know what they say about not missing the things you have until they’re gone,” she says after a few minutes.

“It wasn’t him I was jealous of,” Clint mutters to himself, feels the truth rattle him right down to his bones. “It was _you_. Fuck, I’m an idiot.”

“Perhaps,” Natasha agrees, but she doesn’t stop comforting him.

That starts a landslide in his brain - because if he’s jealous of Natasha dating _Bucky_ , and he started this just to get _Bucky’s_ attention, and he’s fantasizing about _Bucky_ in bed and losing his shit over the idea of _Bucky_ sleeping with someone else - fuck. Fucking shit and goddamn it.

He thinks about long nights on cold roofs and inside jokes, the way he’d felt when he thought Bucky had died during that fight with Rumlow. He remembers stupid shooting competitions, the last time he’d lost because he’d gotten distracted looking at the way Bucky’s hair curled around his jaw. He remembers the way it felt _right_ curled up on Bucky’s bed next to him, however brief it had been.

“I’m in love with him,” Clint says, feels it settle ice-cold and honest in his chest. “Fuck me, I’m in love with Bucky goddamn Barnes.”

“He _is_ quite the catch,” Natasha answers, amused.

She doesn’t sound even _slightly_ bothered by the prospect of Clint being in love with her other suitor. More amused, really, like she’d known from the start. Clint presses his fingers to the sore spot on his jaw where Bucky had hit him, does it a little harder to feel the pulse of pain. It doesn’t make him feel any better, shockingly, but the pain in his body distracts him from the pain in his head.

“I’m an idiot,” he says again.

“What are you going to do about it?”

“What _can_ I do,” he mutters helplessly. He’s fucked it up before he even realized what he’d done. “You saw what I did to his face. And the shit I said to him, Christ, I’ll be surprised if he doesn’t transfer away to DC after this.”

“You have to be willing to try,” Natasha says calmly, nails scratching against his scalp. “Honesty works. Maybe an apology. I think he would listen to you, if you tried.”

“Right,” Clint says, but his heart isn’t in it. The last pep talk he'd had went sideways almost immediately. That one was his bad, not Kate's, but still. Would SHIELD fire him if he just stayed in bed for the next twenty years? Probably. It might still be worth it anyway. He can become one of those cryptid things Kate talks about, a rumour that's never seen in the flesh.

“Clint,” she says sternly, presses his phone into his hand. When had she gotten that? “Call him.”

She gets up then, goes into her kitchen. Clint hears the kettle click on and start to bubble, Natasha rummaging around in the fridge. There’s an unspoken threat here, that if he isn’t on the phone by the time she gets back there will be hell to pay. Clint’s not really willing to cross her - and he needs to try to make things right - so he automatically scrolls to his favourite contacts - Kate’s on top, but only because he used to _see_ Bucky more than her - and taps on Bucky’s contact picture.

It’s a cartoon raccoon. Bucky _hates_ it. Clint wonders when he became that kid on the schoolyard that yanked on the pigtails of his crush to get their attention. He’s pretty sure he hadn’t done that in the past with other people he’d liked. He’d certainly never had the balls to snap at Bobbi the way he does with Bucky. Fuck it. He presses call.

It starts ringing.

And keeps ringing.

And keeps ringing.

Fuck.

“Bucky,” he says to the answering machine, “Bucky, _fuck,_ I’m so fucking sorry, I didn't mean any of it. I’m not actually in love with Natasha, I don’t want her at all, I lied because I’m a jerk that ruins things and I need to talk to you so I can apologize for my overwhelming stupidity so could you please-”

Clint breaks off as something crashes through the window. It’s small, round and black with a blinking red light on it, and he’s taken off-guard so much that he just stares at it for a few long seconds.

“ _Natasha,_ ” he shouts as gas starts hissing out of it. “Natasha, get out of here, something’s wrong.”

He doesn’t hear her reply but he hopes like hell that she’s heard him.

He tries to get his shirt up over his mouth and nose but it’s too late, he already feels slow like his body’s being dragged through tar. Whatever it is, it’s not killing him yet, and his phone slips through increasingly numb fingers as he drops to his knees. They hit the carpet with a thump, enough force that it should hurt, but all he can feel is the panic at realizing he’s probably not going to get to apologize to Bucky.

Booted feet come into view and his chin is tipped up roughly to meet dark, amused eyes.

“It’s been too long, Barton,” Rumlow says with the kind of vicious delight that sends off alarm bells in Clint’s head.

Then there’s a sudden, sharp pain in the back of his head and everything goes black.

Ice-cold water hits him directly in the face and Clint gasps for air as he slams back into consciousness, wonders when he’s going to stop waking up in places he didn’t pass out in. He feels worse than last time, too, like he’s been dragged headfirst through gravel and thrown into a couple of walls.

“He’s awake,” someone says, and Clint blinks rapidly through his swimming vision, tries to focus.

After a few tries he manages to make out the dim room. Something’s dripping, a constant _plipliplip_ that grinds his already-shot nerves into overdrive. The guy standing in front of him drops the bucket that had contained the water, folds his arms. Trying to be intimidating, probably, which means Rumlow didn’t tell him _shit_ about the way Clint acts, even when he’s tied to a steel pipe against the wall.

“This isn’t the five-star hotel room kidnapping I ordered,” Clint says in the most scandalized tone he can muster. “Where are the famous supervillains? The poisoned chocolates on my pillow?”

He gets smacked for that, a hard blow that snaps his head to the side painfully. It’s nowhere near the worst he’s had, though, and he just smirks at the grunt, who looks suitably enraged. Clint takes the opening and twists his fingers around in his bonds. There’s no easy give - it’s a good tie, regardless of how new to the villain business this guy is. Clint’s not going to be able to get out of it without a knife or something equally sharp, and they’ve stolen his clothes _including_ the boot with a blade in it.

At least they’ve taken some mercy and left him his underwear.

“Enjoying the view?”

His quip earns him another hit. “You shouldn’t be so cocky, you little prick. The boss said he’d enjoy taking you apart slowly, making you scream.”

“Hot,” Clint says dryly. “They don’t teach you about consent in villain school?”

“Shut _up,_ ” the man spits.

Clint makes a face at him. He gets hit for that, too, but he’s probably already concussed, why not make it worse? The more angry this guy is, the more likely he is to start making _mistakes,_ and that’s good for Clint. If he gets an opening he can escape. Or he can get himself a weapon, make sure Rumlow’s dead this time. That’s sounding more and more appealing, as the guy kicks him hard in the ribs and Clint curls up as much as he can. _Fuck._

The thug pauses in his beating, holds his hand up to his ear. Clint tries to get his breathing back to something manageable, coughs and feels every nerve spike with pain. Shit. He hopes like hell nothing’s broken, because it’s going to be a lot harder to escape with cracked ribs.

“Yeah, boss,” the guy’s saying. “He’s conscious. Real wise guy, too.”

“Wise?” Clint interrupts. “Buddy, I didn’t even go to high school.”

He gets kicked again, lets out a weak wheezing noise. “Yeah, he’s talkative. Nothing useful, though. You mind if I cut off a couple of fingers, see if he says anything?”

Even Clint can hear the blatant _no_ that comes through the handset, although he can’t hear the stream of words that come after it. He’s stupidly relieved - he needs his goddamn fingers, and metal wouldn’t have the same feel when he uses a bow. Obviously Rumlow wants Clint to himself, which is pretty fair considering he broke in and kidnapped him. Why let your grunts have all the fun? Rumlow’s been foiled a fair few times by Clint, he’s probably got a lot of built-up tension about it.

The guy puts his walkie away after that, scowls at Clint. It’s not a happy look.

“It’s not _my_ fault he won’t let you mutilate me,” Clint says. “You could do it anyway, I won’t tell anyone.”

“You know what,” the man says. “I think I will, just to shut you up. Think you’ll still be mouthy if I cut out your tongue?”

He flips out a nasty-looking karambit knife, the curve sharp and unforgiving in the light of the single bulb on the ceiling. Clint feels the blood drain out of his face, gets his legs under him and stands up. He still can’t go anywhere, but at least he’s not on the ground as the man advances, much larger than he’d seemed from a few meters away. He’s not quite as tall as Clint but he’s wide, ridiculously ripped. Probably steroids.

“I’m going to enjoy this,” he says.

“I’m not,” Clint admits, because what else is he going to say?

The guy grabs his jaw with one meaty hand, fingers digging into the bruises that are already there from the fight with Bucky - shit, _Bucky_. He didn’t get to talk to Bucky before he got kidnapped. What if Bucky thinks he doesn’t give a shit? What had he even left on the answering machine? His phone’s probably toast, too, Clint wouldn’t be surprised if Rumlow had conveniently stepped on it somewhere along the line.

“What the fuck are you doing, Bill,” Rumlow growls.

Bill jumps about half a meter and drops the knife. He turns to look at Rumlow, and it blocks the view of Clint enough that Clint steps on the handle of the blade and pulls it back. It nearly hits the pipe and Clint cringes, but it’s not noticeable. Then he slides down, tries to make it look casual as his fingertips drag against the handle of the knife.

“He’s annoying,” Bill answers weakly.

“He’s _mine,_ ” Rumlow says.

“I’d like to object to that,” Clint says. “I’m really not.”

“You are now,” Rumlow corrects. “Get out of here, Bill.”

“I’m s-”

“I don’t care. I’ll deal with you later. Get out of my sight before I decide to use your insides to paint with.”

Bill scurries out the door - well, as much as a man that big _can_ scurry - and Clint’s left alone with Rumlow. Now the other guy isn’t in the way, Clint can see the bulky armour he’s wearing, spray-painted white and sitting almost like it’s keeping everything in places. Maybe the fall from that roof _had_ affected him after all. Clint’s suddenly, viciously glad, even when Rumlow grins at him with a face promising danger. He’d nearly lost Bucky because of this bitch - and really, he should’ve noticed his reactions to Bucky-related situations before.

Rumlow flexes his armour-covered fingers.

Clint grimaces.


	4. Chapter 4

“You’re gonna tell me sooner or later, Barton,” Rumlow says.

It’s more of a snarl, really, and Clint wonders how long his patience is going to last before he gives up. It’s hard to concentrate with the amount of hits he’s taken, now, and time feels like it’s gone all stretched and wonky like the shirt he’d borrowed from Natasha. Every breath he takes feels painful, the agony spiking hot and sharp through his body and straight into his skull. 

All he can taste is the blood.

“I’m having fun here, Barton,” Rumlow says. “I am, it’s great beating you to hell, but I’m a busy man. I’ve got things to do. So I’m going to need you to tell me what I want.”

“What you want,” Clint deadpans.

Brock ignores him. There’s a lot of red on his armour, and Clint doesn’t think it’s all from him, but he’s drifted in and out of consciousness a few times now and he’s not sure if other people have been coming and going or not. He thinks Bill might’ve been back at one point, remembers a shout that was cut off by a frightening gurgle. It’s all started blurring together.

The ropes he’s tied with are painfully thick. It’s been slow going, trying to cut through them with the curved blade of the karambit, and the way he’s tied doesn’t make it any easier. Even worse is the snail’s pace he has to work at so Rumlow won’t notice - the guy doesn’t seem interested in anything but fucking with Clint, and that’s both an upside and a downside at the same time.

“I got your little lady, you know,” Rumlow comments, cracks his knuckles.

The punch almost doesn’t _hurt at all_ , and that’s a sign Clint needs to get out here. He feels vague and distant, and hopes that he’ll still be pretty when this is all over. Ah, hell, it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t need looks to be a SHIELD agent. It takes him a moment to actually register what Rumlow’s said to him.

_Little lady._

Fuck. _Natasha_. He’d hoped she had time to get away.

“Let her go, Rumlow,” he says. “She’s got nothing to do with this.”

“So?”

“So, let her go,” Clint repeats. “You’re not going to murder a girl, are you?”

“Oh, I’m going to do much worse,” Rumlow says with a nasty grin. “Maybe I’ll bring her eyes to you in a jar, see how willing you are to talk then. You want me to do that? Gouge them out. She won’t be so pretty then, will she?”

Clint’s realized he’s not in love with Natasha, but he still _likes_ her, a lot. And even if he didn’t, he wouldn’t let her get mutilated on his part. Shit. He’s got to get moving. Rumlow turns as he starts squirming fiercely, twisting the knife in his grip. The ropes stay firm as he pushes back against it, and Rumlow advances on him fast and nerve-wracking, the adrenaline rolling up his spine.

The rope snaps free just as Rumlow pulls out a gun and Clint rolls forward, takes out his knees and sends him crashing to the ground. He hits the concrete with a painful-sounding thunk and Clint scrambles for the Glock, tries to pry it out of his grip. Rumlow grabs his hair with his free hand and tugs _hard_ , the same thing he’d tried with Bucky on the rooftop.

“You really need a new move, like, one that isn’t hair-pulling,” Clint rasps, tasting metal.

“I’m going to rip you apart, Barton,” Rumlow growls.

His threats are short-lived, though, because Clint gets his fingers under a plate of armour on his arm and digs into the twisted skin underneath. It’s __disgusting__ , feels spongy and wet and _wrong_ , but Rumlow’s face scrunches up in agony and his grip loosens on the gun, enough that Clint can get a leg out and kick it out of the way. He's got a nasty-looking cut on his leg, and it stings as he moves but it's worth it.

It goes skidding across the floor and Rumlow snarls at him.

“You’re not getting out of here alive,” Rumlow says. “You kill me, there’s a hundred men out there just waiting for the _chance_ to snap your neck. Not all of them are as nice as me.”

“I’ll kill them too. You aren’t special,” Clint retorts.

It _is_ a problem, it’s _definitely_ a problem and Clint’s already aching with pain in a thousand places and he's tired. He’s probably not going to make it through all those people alive. He’s _fucked_. But to be fair, he was already fucked to begin with. He might’ve been fucked the minute he’d accepted the partnership with Bucky Barnes, or before that, when he joined SHIELD. Or before _that_ , when Barney had ran off to the circus and he’d followed because he hadn’t known any better.

“I’ll let your girl go,” Rumlow rasps.

“No you won’t,” Clint replies, because he _knows_ this man and negotiation is never an option.

“No I won’t,” Rumlow agrees with a violent grin, and Clint sinks the knife into his chest hard, twists sharply until he feels something give.

“Fuck,” he says when Rumlow stops moving. Thank god there was a gap in his armour there, it’s at the perfect angle. Clint lets out a heavy sigh as the room fades into silence. It’s hard to get to his feet, shuffle over to the gun. He leaves the knife buried in Rumlow’s body. It might’ve made a nice souvenir, but the gun is more practical and he doesn’t want to tuck a bloody knife in his underwear. God, the diseases. He’s eaten pizza off of the floor, but that’s crossing a line right there.

He’d considered the physical pain, the aches and pains blooming all over his body, but he hadn’t thought about the repercussions of being tied to a pipe on the ground for hours. Clint screws his eyes up as every muscle in his leg twinges, rides out the steady pulse of pain. Clenches his fingers on the gun. Deep breaths. One, two, three. 

Clint shoves open the door to the room and pokes his head out.

Nothing.

He’s relieved. It’s been a long time since he’s had to fight in his underwear. He doesn’t really want to do it for the route out of this place. He closes the door carefully on Rumlow’s body, whispers a quiet ‘fuck you’ into the metal. The metal does not reply, and he should probably stop talking to an inanimate object before he gets caught by one of Rumlow’s underlings.

Clint turns into the next corridor and nearly bounces off the chest of the guy standing there. There’s no time to line up his gun as a fist lands on his jaw, knocks him to the ground. He feels paper-light and nauseous, and as the guy looms over him there’s an echoing _bang_ that rattles around his poor, abused skull. The man’s shirt blooms dark, shocking red against white cotton and he grabs at his chest before he falls on Clint with a thump.

He’s fucking _heavy_. The sticky-wet sensation of blood doesn’t make it any better.

Clint groans and shoves him off, looks up at his black-clad hero.

“We really have to stop meeting like this, Clint,” Natasha says. “I might get tired of rescuing you, one of these days.”

“I’m not that happy about it either,” he rasps, takes her hand when she offers it and lets her pull him to his feet. “You okay?”

“Fine,” she answers, and as he looks at her he realizes it’s true. Her hair’s a little ruffled in its ponytail, but otherwise she doesn’t have a scratch on her. Even her makeup is perfect. Clint doesn’t want to think about how he looks in comparison. Somehow he’s not even remotely surprised that Natasha’s okay - he’s seen the lethal look in her eyes, the tightly coiled danger held in her body. He doesn’t bother questioning it.

“You know the way out of this place?”

“I think there’s more men on the way out,” she says. “Think you’re up to helping me get rid of them?”

“I’ll feel guilty if I make you do all the work,” he answers, gets an amused little smile.

“Let’s get going, then,” she says. “I think I saw a flamethrower somewhere.”

“Oh god, I hate everything,” Clint wheezes.

“That last jump was your own fault and you know it,” Natasha says, unmerciful with her words even as she holds onto his arm, keeps him from falling on the ground. They make it out of the building and Clint sucks in a breath, tastes the night cold and fresh in his mouth. God, he’s relieved to make it out of there. He wasn't sure he'd make it. “I called SHIELD, by the way.”

“Oh,” he says as he glances around at the black-suited people running past them and into the building.

Natasha gets him standing on his own, lets go of him and takes a few steps back like she’s staying out of the way of something.

Wait.

If she’s called SHIELD, all the level five and above agents would’ve been notified of Clint’s capture. Which means-

Bucky’s running towards them, fully decked-out in his black mission gear, arm glowing silver in the moonlight. He’s so beautiful it physically _hurts_ to look at, and why hadn’t Clint realized before now how he felt? God, he’s dumb. Too stupid to be alive, possibly. Clint sags a little against the bloodstained crate he’s been propped up against and rubs at his aching jaw, fingers coming away wet with blood. Natasha straightens up where she’s standing, tucks away her gun in the waistband of her sweatpants.

Right.

His heart sinks so fast it should splash the mud underneath his bare feet. He’s going to get to watch Bucky run to Natasha, maybe cup her face gently in his mismatched hands as he makes sure she’s okay. Maybe they’ll kiss and it’ll be like some big-budget Hollywood movie, the rain pattering down around them and SHIELD agents marveling at how absurdly beautiful they both are. It’s what they both deserve.

Clint squeezes his eyes shut. He can’t do it. He can’t watch Bucky care for her, touch her like she’s the most precious thing he’s ever seen. He can’t see whatever expression Bucky makes when he’s tending to someone like that.

He can’t watch Bucky be in love with someone else.

Metal touches his cheek, cold and soothing against the pain, and Clint’s so startled he jumps, opens his eyes suddenly. He thinks he might have passed out from pain or blood loss because Bucky’s in front of him, eyes wild and the bruise Clint had caused blooming in startlingly dark colours on his cheek.

“ _Clint,_ ” Bucky says, a little desperate-sounding as he grabs ahold of him, presses his nose to Clint’s neck.

He’s cold and damp from the rain, and Clint automatically gets his limbs working again and holds on, clings to him. Bucky’s shaking slightly under his hands, tiny little tremors that are only noticeable because of how closely pressed together they are.

“Bucky,” he says, sounds a little choked even to his own ears. Can’t come up with anything beyond that, just grips the stiff leather of his jacket and tries not to fall over from the wash of relief. They stand there and time seems to stretch out into something meaningless, nothing mattering except Bucky and Clint standing here together.

It’s doesn’t last forever, though, because then Bucky’s pulling back to look him in the eyes, although he’s not letting go.

“You fucking _idiot,_ ” Bucky seethes. “What the _hell,_ Barton?”

Of course. The irritation spikes up his spine like a knife. “I didn’t get kidnapped on purpose! It’s not like I had a damn _sign_ I was holding up going ‘RUMLOW PLEASE TAKE ME,’ fucking hell. Screw you, Barnes.”

“Screw _you,_ Barton,” Bucky shouts at him, and it’s so loud that Clint winces. His fingers are digging into Clint’s skin harder than is strictly necessary, and it’s only now Clint can sees the redness around Bucky’s eyes, the barely-concealed panic in his face. “I thought I’d _lost you,_ you idiot.”

Oh. That's- that's something.

“I- but aren’t you- Natasha?”

Clint looks past Bucky at Natasha, who’s watching them with a slight smile on her face. When she meets Clint’s gaze she raises an eyebrow and then turns to greet Fury as he comes down from the Quinjet. Bucky doesn’t even give her a second glance. He’s too busy holding onto Clint so tightly that it actually _hurts._

“You were right,” Bucky says. “She is too good for me. But I don’t want _her,_ so it doesn’t matter.”

“But you-”

“I wanted to keep her away from you,” he answers, looking away. “I wanted to stop _you_ from liking her, so I got in the way as much as I could. Guess I kind of sucked at it.”

“Jesus Christ,” Clint says. “I just started this thing because I wanted to hang out with you again.”

Bucky looks directly at him then, eyes widening. There’s a long pause as he seems to take in what Clint’s confessed, and then a sudden bark of laughter. “Fuck, we’re bad at this.”

“I thought I was jealous of you and I was jealous of Nat, because she got to go to dinner with you and see you in your stupid formal clothes. I wanted to be the one making fun of you, even though you looked so hot I was dying on the inside,” Clint says - babbles, really. It’s all coming out in a rush now, like the floodgates have been opened. God, he’s an idiot. “And then you turned all the cameras off and took her dress off and I was losing my fucking mind, I swear-”

“-I didn’t even sleep with her,” Bucky says. “I was just tryin’ to make you give _up_ so I didn’t have to watch you two get all sweet on each other-”

“-fuck, I didn’t sleep with her either, I kept thinking about you and I couldn’t, not even to win a stupid bet-”

“That _stupid_ fucking bet,” Bucky says. “I forfeit, I don’t give a shit about makin’ out with Romanov.”

“Me either,” Clint says. “I forfeit too, fuck it.”

They look at each other silently for a second and then burst into laughter. It’s helpless, a little hysterical and a lot relieved, and Clint drinks it in. It feels _good,_ better than this whole situation has since the start. He’s still clinging onto Bucky like someone’s going to drag them apart at any moment, fists clenched in his suit as tight as he can manage. It's not just because he's having trouble standing.

“I’m kind of in love with you,” Clint says when it dies down, soft.

“Me too,” Bucky answers immediately. “God, Barton, me too.”

His knees nearly buckle underneath him and at first he thinks that it’s just out of sheer relief, the way it’s smacking him in the face like a physical blow. Then he remembers he was _literally_ smacked in the face, more than once. The blood’s still wet on his face and he’s in his goddamn _underwear_ in the _rain_. It’s a miracle he’s still standing as it is.

Clint pulls Bucky a little closer with numb fingers, tries to make it look like an embrace instead of a desperate attempt to leech some heat off of him. Bucky catches on almost immediately, though, and pulls his hands away. Clint makes a whining sound he’ll never admit to making and then he’s getting wrapped up in Bucky’s heavy SHIELD jacket, mismatched hands doing up the first button. He’s about to protest and then he feels how warm it is, inhales and smells _Bucky,_ and decides that he can suffer through the mother-henning.

“Barton. Barnes. If you’re finished.”

“Hey, Maria,” Clint greets weakly.

Hill looks unimpressed. “I want a debrief of what just went down here. Who was the ringleader?”

“Rumlow,” Clint answers. “I left his corpse in the basement.”

“Fucking Rumlow,” Bucky growls. Clint agrees with that sentiment wholeheartedly. Rumlow was a fucking pain in the ass, right up until the end. Hill frowns and types something onto her phone, adjusts the earpiece she’s wearing as it blinks a green light. Clint suddenly realizes that Rumlow could’ve taken his aids and he’s silently relieved that the man had been too single-minded to think of that.

“Where did you say you left him?”

“Underground. Basement level. Shitty little room in the corner, there should be a trail of blood and dead grunts leading you right to it,” Clint says. The blood’s half his own, but still.

Maria looks like she’s going to argue with him some more - which, what the hell? It’s not like he’s lying - but Bucky gives her a death glare that’s nasty even by his standards. She closes her mouth again and Bucky scowls. “We’re going to medical. If he’s okay, _then_ you can have your debrief.”

“I’m fine,” Clint protests weakly, and Bucky snorts, lets go of him and steps back. Clint nearly slides to the ground, barely manages to catch himself on the crate as his legs wobble.

“Medical,” Hill agrees. “But I still want a report.”

“Fuck off, Hill,” Bucky says, hooks an arm around Clint’s waist to help him stand up again.

“You must really love me if you’re willing to invoke Hill’s wrath,” Clint says, although he meant to think it and not utter it out loud. Oh well.

“I really do,” Bucky agrees.

“You’re not dead,” Fury notes.

“I’m too stubborn to die,” Clint replies cheerfully, leans back in his chair and kicks his feet up on the conference table. No one tells him to put them down. It’s a lost cause at this rate - no one bothers to stop Bucky from lighting up in the corner of the room either. He’s leaning up against the back wall silently, because he’s not technically supposed to _be_ here but he refuses to leave Clint alone with their superiors, even though the medical team had let him go.

Clint doesn’t admit that he likes the attention.

“So,” Maria says. “We didn’t find Rumlow’s body where you said it was.”

Clint feels the blood drain out of his face. “What?”

“It wasn’t _there,_ Barton,” Fury says. “He’s escaped. Whether it's because someone stole his corpse or he got up and walked out by himself, there's no body. Gone. Out on the run. No one caught him and we’ve got no idea where it went.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Clint mutters under his breath. Why can’t Rumlow just _die_ already? The medical team had given him a handful of pills but he’s still reliving the beating over and over again every time he closes his eyes. It’s not like he hasn’t been assaulted before - on the contrary, it's a constant in the chaos that is his life - and yet every single time his brain goes on a loop of pain and exhaustion and fear afterwards.

The world seems to have it out for him again. It’s not like it ever stopped, really, though.

Bucky swears viciously from behind him.

“We can handle it, Barnes,” Hill says.

“Yeah, you did a _real_ good job of that last time, didn’t you,” Bucky mutters, still very-much audible. It was meant to be, probably. Clint tries not to let the delighted little smile show on his face, even as he feels it warm in his chest. Bucky getting all asshole-protective over him isn’t going to get old anytime soon.

“Have I missed anything?”

Clint turns his head and watches as Natasha enters the room. She’s in a black jumpsuit, something easy and fluid to move in, and that dangerous look that always lingers on her face is in her whole body now, the kind of lethal movements he recognizes as _assassin._ Bucky’s watching her with open shock, cigarette forgotten, but she just tips Clint’s chin up with her fingers to inspect his butterfly stitches quickly before she sits down next to him. Hill and Fury don’t seem surprised to see her.

“Hey,” Clint says, because he doesn't have anything else to say.

“Hi yourself,” Natasha greets. “Feel better?”

“Eh, could take it or leave it,” he answers. “I’m kind of mad you got out without a scratch.”

Natasha laughs, and it’s more genuine than the other times he’s heard her do that. She looks comfortable like this, black leather but immaculate as always. Clint feels like he’s been looking through a filter this whole time and now he’s actually getting to see the _real_ her, and it’s interesting. Bucky coughs.

“I take it she’s not _actually_ a Stark Industries employee?”

Bucky gives her a suspicious look and Natasha rolls her eyes, far from intimidated. “And you two are definitely prostitutes. Yes, we’re all very honest here.”

“Miss Romanov is our new agent,” Fury says. “She’s just as competent as you two, but she fucks around a lot less, so we’re promoting her to level eight. She’ll be using Wilson’s old space. Get used to having another superior.”

“Welcome to the club,” Clint says, wonders if he should be freaking out more. “That first time you met us, at the cafe. That wasn’t an accident, was it?”

“No,” Natasha agrees, ignoring Bucky’s disgruntled glare.

“And the alleyway with Ivan?”

“I was following you,” she admits. “I like to know who I’m working with before I have to work with them. Usually I’d read paperwork, but you and Barnes don't write a lot of reports, so I needed more information.”

“Fair enough,” Clint says.

“No, not _fair enough,_ ” Bucky growls. “You played games with us.”

“Oh?” Natasha smirks. “Like you were playing games, with me in the middle?”

Bucky’s face flushes and Clint can’t help the laughter that bubbles out of him. God, she knew about it _the whole time._ Of course she did. Clint’s got to clear his apartment for bugs again when he gets home. The unfortunate part of laughing is that now Bucky’s glaring at him as well, and he hadn’t intended to be on the shit list again quite so soon after their reconciliation.

“Why’d you let it go on so long?”

Natasha shrugs at him. “It was amusing. I wanted to see how long it would take before one of you came to your senses. It took longer than I expected, to be honest.”

“Yeah, we’re kind of dumb,” Clint agrees mildly.

“Shut the fuck up, Barton,” Bucky says.

“Aw, I thought you loved me? What happened, sweetpea? Love muffin? Light of my life, peanut butter to my jelly?”

“I’m going to piss in your shoes,” Bucky threatens, waving the cigarette at him. It’s a good thing he’s got metal hands, because it’s nearly burned down to the filter and he doesn't seem to have noticed. Clint sticks his tongue out, and for a minute he thinks Bucky’s going to stalk up to him and rip it out of his mouth. Then he remembers Bucky _loves_ _him_ and he's safe.

“I’m so sorry, Agent Romanov,” Fury says.

“They’re not so bad,” Natasha replies.

“Were you ever romantically interested in either of us?” Clint snickers when Bucky glares at him. It’s not like it _matters,_ and he’s fairly sure he knows the answer anyway. None of the dates he’d been on with Natasha had been anything but hilariously platonic. They’d had fun, but not like _that._

“I’m not romantically interested in _anyone_. For all it matters, you could be lamps,” she says with amusement. “Beautiful, stupid lamps, but lamps nonetheless.”

“Even if you were, surely you’d have better taste than these two,” Hill cuts in.

“I resent that,” Clint says. “I’m a wonderful person.”

“Sure,” Bucky deadpans.

“I am a _delight,_ ” Clint insists. Bucky rolls his eyes.

“ _Anyway,_ ” Fury says with an unspoken threat in his tone. “We’ll discuss strategies to hunt down Brock Rumlow when we’ve got more information. Barton, I take it you’re not going to take up SHIELD’s offer of a safehouse?”

“He didn’t find me at my apartment, it was at Natasha’s,” Clint says. “But no, yeah, I’m staying at my place.”

Clint’s good at putting on a straight face; he’ll make himself comfortable wherever he needs to. But he needs a place he knows is safe for _him,_ even if it’s not safe in the general sense. He’s not going to be thrust in some place he knows nothing about when it won’t help him. And god, he misses his bed. And his dog, shit, he’s got to go home and feed Lucky. Hopefully Kate did it.

All of a sudden he feels so _tired,_ like he’s been alive for a million years and witnessed all the sins of man. There’s a headache pulsing in time with his heartbeat. He’s beaten up and limping from the ankle he’d busted and Rumlow’s probably got a grudge and he just wants to go _home._

“Yeah, we’re going back to his apartment,” Bucky says. “If you need us, we’ll be there.”

Clint tries not to look too grateful. He thinks he might start crying if he lets the floodgates open, and that’s not something he wants to do in front of his boss.

“I called you two an Uber,” Natasha says as he gets up with some difficulty, like she knows exactly what’s going on inside his head.

“Thanks,” Bucky says, and his hand feels cold and secure where it lands on Clint’s shoulder. Clint leans into it and wonders if Bucky’s going to be touching him like this more often. It makes him feel a little less frayed at the edges.

“Your advice was misleading,” he tells Kate.

“It wouldn’t have been if you weren’t a complete dumbass,” Kate answers, but she doesn’t take it any further. Probably because Clint looks like he’s lost a fight with a brick wall. She’s merciful, sometimes. Her eyes drift over his shoulder to where Bucky’s standing and her lips curve up in an almost-there smile. “Hey, Buckaroo.”

“Kate,” Bucky says awkwardly. Where does all that charm go when he’s not in front of age-appropriate women?

Her gaze comes back to Clint. “Lucky’s fed. He’s hanging out in the guest room, I let him sleep on the bed. Take him for a walk tomorrow.”

“Yeah, okay,” Clint says. “Thanks, Katie.”

“You owe me, like, too much to even count.” She grabs her bag. “I’ll go spend the night at America’s. Seeya.”

“Later, Katie-Kate,” he answers, watches her go down the fire escape and then wanders into the kitchen. The coffeepot’s sitting there, sadly empty.

“Water or gatorade,” Bucky orders, like he can read Clint’s mind.

Clint sighs and leans forward, rests his forehead against the fridge and relishes in the cold against his heated skin. It feels like his entire skin-suit is just one big bruise. God, he’s so _exhausted._ He could take a nap here if he’d mastered the skill of sleeping while standing up. He closes his eyes.

_You know, I’ve snapped every bone in a man’s hand before, Barton. The noise is just so satisfying, you know? That delicious crunch under my boot, and then the screams. The screaming’s real nice. You gonna scream for me, Hawkeye?_

“-Clint? _Clint!_ ”

His eyes snap open again.

Somehow he’s ended up on the floor, back pressing into the wood of the counter as his breathing comes panicked and rapid. His fingers are curled tight around a fork, like _that’s_ going to save him from the demons in his own mind. Bucky’s standing over him, worry as vivid as the blue of his eyes.

“I’m okay,” he rasps.

“You’re on the floor,” Bucky points out, but his expression softens as he holds out a hand. It’s the metal one, unsurprisingly, and Clint takes it without a second thought, lets Bucky pull him to his feet gently. He leaves the fork to stay on the tiles. It’s hard not to slump into Bucky, just go limp with the stress and exhaustion pulling at his heavy limbs.

“I’m tired,” he says, sounding small.

“Come to bed, Barton,” Bucky answers, surprisingly gentle as he gets a hand on Clint’s elbow, turns him around and steers towards the bedroom. “You don’t have to go to sleep, just lay down for a bit.”

“You’re not the boss of me,” Clint grumbles, but he’s pliant as Bucky pushes him down onto the mattress. It’s soft and comforting, but he’s still a little panicked from the sudden flashback and he grabs at Bucky’s wrist, holds on like it’s a lifeline. “Don’t- don’t go anywhere. Please.”

“I was just getting you some water,” Bucky says as he lets Clint tug him down into the mess of bedding without complaint. The medical crew had given him a pair of threadbare sweatpants and he’s wrapped in Bucky’s jacket, but he still grabs for the blankets and pulls them up. Bucky doesn’t comment, and when Clint looks he’s just watching quietly, expression inscrutable.

Clint raises an eyebrow questioningly.

“You’re… you’re okay, right?”

“Define okay,” he says, and there’s a flicker of panic in Bucky's eyes. “No, don’t do that, I’m- it was bad, but he didn’t have time to do anything irreversible. I don't remember half of it. Talked, mostly.”

“Sometimes the talking’s worse,” Bucky says, like he understands. Clint hasn’t read his file - felt it was too personal, especially for someone he was supposed to be paired with for an indefinite amount of time - but hell, maybe he does.

“I’m sorry,” Clint says without meaning to.

Bucky seems to understand anyway, gaze softening. “I’m sorry too.”

Clint blinks. He hadn’t really been expecting that. Still, it’s… it’s _nice._ Knowing someone else gets what he’s just been through, as horrific as it is. Knowing Bucky’s sorry about it. It doesn’t really fix the way he feels a blade teasingly slide against his neck every time he closes his eyes, but it quietens the rumbling static in his head.

“C’mere,” Bucky says, loops an arm around Clint’s waist and pulls him close. The metal arm is as cold as it always is, comforting and familiar. Clint has to give in to the urge to twist his fingers tight in Bucky’s t-shirt and press his face against Bucky’s shoulder. It staves off the looming panic attack.

The world feels quieter, here.

“I got your message,” Bucky says. “’s how we knew Rumlow had gotten ahold of you. You _are_ a jerk, I ain’t disputin’ that, but this is- this was my fault too. Should’ve been there for you.

“You didn’t know Rumlow was alive,” Clint says, voice muffled by worn cotton. “It’s part of the job. I’ve had the crap beaten out of me before. It’s okay.”

“It’s _not_ okay,” Bucky says vehemently.

“It is over, though,” he says. “You gonna stay?”

“For as long as you want me,” Bucky says simply.

_Well,_ Clint thinks to himself in the relative safety of his own mind, _in that case you’re going to be staying here forever._ He tightens his grip on Bucky’s shirt, inhales the smell of cigarette smoke and fruity shampoo. He’s thinking it might be blueberry and coconut. Either way it’s great, although it might just be his thing for _Bucky_ rather than Bucky’s hair products.

When he closes his eyes this time, the darkness stays dark.

He wakes up to someone’s phone ringing. His ears feel absolutely _disgusting_ from wearing his aids the whole night and he groans, rolls over and jams his face into the pillow. The ringing continues, and Clint registers it vaguely as a trumpet cover of Seven Nation Army. Interesting choice for a ringtone.

“What? No, Steve, I’m not dead. No, Clint’s not dead either.”

Clint snorts.

“What do you mean, you’re going to DC? Ugh, whatever, go fuck your boyfriend, I don’t care. I won’t be home for a while anyway. Just leave the key under the mat, it doesn’t matter.” A pause. “What the hell is a robber goin’ to __steal__ from us, Rogers? Your Golden Girls DVDs? The microwave dinners? We don’t _have_ any valuables, shut the fuck up.”

Another pause, longer this time.

“No, I’m not with Natasha,” Bucky grumbles, lets out a sigh. “Bye, Steve.”

Clint feels the mattress shift under his weight and peers out from the pillow, takes in the sight in front of him. They’d forgotten to close the curtains last night in the effort to get him into bed, and now the midday sunlight’s streaming in, catching the lighter strands in Bucky’s hair and turning them gold. His eyes look really nice from this angle too, the blue even brighter than usual.

“Hey,” he says, when Bucky looks at him.

“Hey,” Bucky greets, slides down the bed from his sitting position so he’s looking Clint in the face. That stray bit of fringe is curling over his forehead again, and Clint’s fingers itch with the urge to touch it. He suddenly remembers that he’d told Bucky he was in love with him yesterday. And Bucky had confessed to the same thing. They’re in love with each other and they’re in bed together. Right.

Bucky looks like he’s just come to the same conclusion, and they’re left staring at each other. The nerves claw up the skin of Clint’s throat and threaten to break free.

“So,” Bucky says.

“So,” Clint repeats.

“What the hell do we do now?”

“I don’t fucking know,” Clint says with a little more feeling than is strictly necessary. He’s never had this problem. He’s accidentally married someone before, and accidentally slept with some - a _lot_ of - people, but now he’s thinking back on it, he’s not sure he’s told someone he loves them without having even _kissed_ them before. He’s at a loss.

“What are the chances Rumlow knows where you live?”

“Hopefully low,” Clint answers. “Pretty sure there’ll be SHIELD agents lurking in the area anyway. Fury doesn’t like leaving things to chance.”

“You make a good point,” Bucky agrees, metal thumb rubbing up against Clint’s collarbone. The pressure feels nice. “So we’re relatively safe, then?”

“Relatively,” Clint says. “Yeah.”

“But… we should probably stay here,” Bucky says slowly. “Right?”

“I guess,” Clint says. “Where are you actually going with this? Do you have some sort of plan going on, or-”

Clint doesn’t get to finish his line of questioning, because Bucky’s edging a little closer to kiss him. His mouth is soft and wet, but it feels a little _tentative,_ like Bucky’s not sure if it’s going to be welcome. It’s unexpected, sure, but most certainly _very_ welcome. Clint can’t have him thinking otherwise, and he hooks a leg over Bucky’s hip, gets one hand in Bucky’s shirt again and kisses him back with as much feeling as he can muster.

It’s not entirely where he had predicted today would go, not that he’d actually made a prediction. Spending the day kissing Bucky is as good, if not better, than whatever he could’ve come up with anyway. Bucky’s metal hand is still pressed up against his collarbone, close to his throat and warmer than it would usually be. Probably because Clint’s been cuddling up to it all night. He takes no shame for it.

“I’m not letting you leave even if you want to,” he says when Bucky pulls back, a little breathless.

“Wasn’t planning on going anywhere, dumbass,” Bucky retorts, voice rough.

“Dick,” Clint bites. He shouldn’t have expected anything different - of _course_ they’re insulting and snarking at each other while making out, it’s just how their relationship is. It feels _right,_ as weird as it probably looks from the outside. Bucky smirks at him, all bedhair and flushed cheeks, and it’s too much. His tongue flicks out to wet his lips and Clint’s gaze gets stuck on it.

Clint tugs him back, ends up with Bucky half-laying on top of him instead, pressing warm and firm into his legs and chest. Bucky just kisses him again, fingers dragging along Clint’s chest where the jacket doesn’t quite cover up his skin.

He doesn’t know how long they stay like that, and he’s never been crazy about kissing the way some people are, but now it’s _Bucky_ kissing him Clint doesn’t really want to stop. It’s weirdly addictive, and Clint wonders if there’s a support group for this. _Bucky Kissers Anonymous._ He hopes there isn’t, because he’s kind of set on staking his claim.

Clint realizes Bucky’s grinding on him, desperate little rolls of his hips into Clint and _god,_ that’s something. His skin feels too tight all of a sudden and he makes a helpless noise that Bucky _definitely_ picks up on based on the way he bites at his lip and his gaze turns hot and assessing.

“You were assaulted yesterday,” Bucky says. “Are you sure?”

“I’m assaulted every other day,” Clint replies dryly, then tries to look more serious. “My life is literally ninety-percent bad decisions. This isn’t one. I want it, Bucky, I _really_ fucking want it.” _Make me feel something good, make me forget about the last week,_ he thinks but doesn’t say.

“Okay,” Bucky answers, leans in to brush his lips up against Clint’s jaw. He doesn’t question it further, doesn’t fuss around even though he’s being careful to avoid the worst of the cuts and bruises. He _trusts_ Clint to make the decision, and that’s more important than anything else he could’ve done. Clint starts cursing out whatever went on his brain before now, because he’s just realizing they could’ve had this the _whole fucking time._

“Pay attention, this isn’t a SHIELD briefing you can nap through,” Bucky mutters against Clint’s throat, nips at the skin there.

Clint’s breath catches in his lungs and it takes him a minute to formulate a reply as Bucky’s fingers graze over his stomach, exploring carefully. “Says th- says the guy who hasn’t submitted a report on-time in his _life._ ”

“I have so,” Bucky argues, pushes his jacket open so he can bite at Clint’s chest. He looks up at Clint, eyes alight with amusement. “Once I got Steve to do it.”

“Please don’t mention Steve while we’re in bed together,” Clint says a little pleadingly, gets his fingers in Bucky’s scruffy hair and strokes through it. Despite the messy look, it’s silky and soft under his fingers and Bucky leans into it like he’s enjoying the treatment. He presses a kiss to Clint’s sternum, impossibly gentle, and Clint feels the lump in his chest get a little worse. It’s a good feeling, just - _overwhelming,_ for lack of a better description.

It probably shows on his face, because Bucky makes a sympathetic expression and then his hand is on the waistband of Clint’s sweatpants. Metal fingertips drag along the bare skin there and Clint sucks in a tight breath, tries not to squirm too much. He’s inches away from touching Clint’s dick and it’s - it’s a lot, having the love and affection and snark and arousal all mixed up inside him, and doubled with the look on Bucky’s face, it’s almost a one-hit knockout.

He tries to sit up, grabs for Bucky’s shoulder and gets gently but firmly pushed back down into the mattress. “Stay,” Bucky says. “I know you have issues with obeying orders, but I ain’t doin’ this unless you sit back and let me do the work.”

“You can’t handle me anyway,” Clint says to push down the lingering anxiety. He’s not exactly known for being passive and staying still, energy thrumming through every inch of his body and Bucky knows that, rubs a thumb over his hipbone comfortingly. Clint sighs out a breath. He can stay put for Bucky.

“Oh, I can do more than that, sweetheart,” Bucky says, the pet name _exactly_ the way Clint had imagined him saying it. “Roll over.”

He feels ridiculously overheated just from that but he manages to move when Bucky pulls back, ends up on his knees with his elbows propping him up. Clint’s not sure what Bucky’s plan is here as his sweatpants are worked off of his hips, shifts a little to kick them off his ankles. The metal hand lands on his ass and squeezes, and then Bucky’s pressing a biting kiss on the base of Clint’s spine and slipping down further, and Clint can’t quite hold back on crying out as Bucky’s tongue drags hot and wet over his hole.

Apparently Bucky's concept of letting _him_ do all the work doesn't mean he's going to go easy on Clint.

“Okay?”

“Fuck you, don’t stop, don’t _stop,_ ” Clint says, a little frantic as Bucky licks around where he’s got two metal fingers pressing in deep, dragging up against things that send sparks of heat up his spine. Bucky’s face is scraping against him roughly and there’s probably going to be a truly uncomfortable amount of stubble burn later but right now it’s _really_ doing it for him. He shoves his hips back a little demandingly, makes an overwhelmed gasping noise when Bucky curls his fingers just right.

“I think it’s more fuck _you,_ right now,” Bucky says, all dry amusement that does nothing to distract from the way his voice has gone all rough and wanting.

“Shut up,” Clint grumbles, can’t stop himself even as he forces his body to stay pliant so Bucky won’t stop completely. “Fucking tease.”

“We coulda been doin’ this from the start,” Bucky reasons, nips his way up Clint’s spine and presses a kiss to his shoulder. “I’m just making up for lost time. You complainin’?”

Clint wonders, briefly, if Bucky had known all along or if this stupid bet had given him the same revelation as Clint. People tend to assume Bucky’s the smart one, so it’s possible, especially with the way Bucky’s taking his time to take Clint apart, peel him down to a shaking, needy mess. It’s the kind of single-minded focus that Bucky specializes in as a sniper, though, so it’s equally as possible the floodgates just burst open recently.

“Not complaining,” he gasps when Bucky’s fingers thrust a little harder, a little more unforgiving. “Not complaining, fuck, _please._ ”

“You’re less annoying like this, though,” Bucky mutters. “Could just keep you like this forever, make you choke for it.”

“I’d leave,” Clint says, even though both of them know that’s a blatant lie. “I’ll just leave and you can jerk off alone, how d’you like that?”

“You wouldn’t,” Bucky answers, a little smug. “You said you loved me.”

“I _do_ love you, but you’re still a fucking as- _fuck,_ Christ, Barnes, _Bucky._ ”

“I’ll let you have this one, just because I’m nice like that,” Bucky says, and Clint’s forgotten how to speak entirely with the three fingers inside of him. Bucky _has_ to know he has a thing for the hand, the way he’s been using it to take him apart. It’s not cold anymore but it’s still steel, hard and unforgiving as Clint presses his face into the pillows and tries to remember how to breathe again.

Bucky must be desperate too, the way he’s gotten a little more _insistent_ even if he’s still being careful not to hurt Clint.

“Condom?”

“Second drawer. Why didn’t you get one when you got the lube? Fuck’s sake, Barnes,” Clint grumbles.

Bucky’s fingers slip out of him and he holds back the urge to start whining. He’s vaguely aware he’s not normally quite this annoying and needy in the sack, but he’s had a shitty couple of weeks and he’s desperate for Bucky to touch him again, even as the drawer rattles. Clint’s tempted to tell him to leave it and just get _in_ him already. That’s more of a later-in-the-relationship thing, though. SHIELD tests them for everything when they join, but Clint’s not entirely sure Bucky would even be on-board with that.

The problem with that train of thought is that now Clint’s _thinking_ about it. He can’t really deny he’s into the idea of Bucky fucking him bareback and coming inside him all wet and messy, but he’s not going to bring it up now. Later, maybe.

Right now he just wants Bucky to hurry the hell up.

“You good like this?”

“If I had a complaint, you’d know about it,” Clint says, feels the mattress dip under Bucky’s weight. He’s shifting a little impatiently and Bucky rubs his rough fingers over Clint’s spine, lets them drift lower. “I’m starting to think you have a thing for my ass, Barnes.”

“I do,” Bucky agrees easily, none of the snark he normally uses, just blatant honesty. Clint’s a little shocked by the straightforwardness, but he can’t deny that it’s hot. Bucky’s fingers trace around his rim teasingly and Clint’s tempted to kick him for still being a goddamn tease. “Fucking brilliant ass, and you’re always in those goddamn leather pants at work, tryin’ to kill me.”

“If I wanted you dead you’d already _be_ dead,” Clint grumbles.

“I know,” Bucky says, stroking wet fingers down his side.

Then he’s pushing in hot and hard and it’s like the oxygen up and leaves the room. Clint’s been asking for this for the last ten minutes, begging almost, and he’s still not prepared for the way Bucky feels in him. He’s aware in a distant sort of way that he’s making little overwhelmed noises that are _far_ too close to sobs, should be embarrassed but doesn’t remember how. Bucky’s still touching him careful and firm, metal pressed against Clint’s hip.

It’s fucking incredible, and when Bucky moves Clint’s reaching back with one hand, keeping himself braced with the other as he grabs Bucky’s hand where it’s resting on his own hip. It’s the flesh one this time, calloused when Bucky links their fingers together as he sets a pace that’s too slow and too much all at once. The only reason he hasn’t come is sheer force of will, because he’s not willing for this to be over yet - if at all - and he’s shaking with it.

It only gets worse when he feels Bucky press up against his back, all warm chest and firm muscles even as he nips at Clint’s skin and then lays down a kiss over the same spot like he’s trying to soothe the barely-there spark of pain. It’s not like Clint doesn’t _like_ the pain, but Bucky acting like this gets him in all different soft spots, makes him gasp against the pillow and shove his hips back into Bucky’s.

Clint’s glad, all of a sudden, that they’re doing it in this position, because this way Bucky can’t see the wetness sticking to his lashes, dampening the pillow.

It’s just- it’s just _Bucky,_ god, he doesn’t even know anymore. Maybe he’s going insane. Hell, he might’ve been insane before now. It’s a lot.

“Doing so good, baby,” Bucky says, his voice a little strained. "So good, fuck, _Clint._ "

It's always _Barton_ with Bucky and it shouldn't make that big of a difference but it does, it really does. Clint sucks in a shaky breath, tries not to collapse when Bucky’s other hand stops supporting him. He’s too distracted to think about what’s going on until slick fingers wrap around his dick, twists just _right_ as Bucky picks up the rhythm and now he’s _definitely_ sobbing, even as he’s coming under metal fingers and feeling his knees give out under him.

He doesn’t stop shaking after his orgasm, and Bucky shifts and slows like he’s going to pull out but Clint grips his fingers tighter, lifts his face out of the pillow to gasp out a desperate “ _please._ ”

“You sure?”

“Yeah,” Clint croaks. “Yeah, want it, please.”

Bucky starts up again and Clint lets his face fall back down, even as he’s trembling from the overstimulation and the force of Bucky’s thrusts. It only lasts a handful of seconds before he hears Bucky cry out and come, and that’s.

Clint barely feels him pull out, vaguely hears the sound of the condom hitting the trashcan he keeps by the bed but never uses. He manages to sink down to the mattress properly then, smearing the wet spot but not really caring. Then Bucky’s back, smoothing a hand down his back and pressing a kiss to his head. Clint’s still shaking, just a little bit, but Bucky doesn’t comment on it, just stays close and holds him through it as Clint’s breathing slowly gets steadier.

“ _Fuck,_ ” he says when he remembers how to speak words.

“Yeah,” Bucky says, voice a little awed like it was just as crazy for him, which is impossible.

Clint risks a peek over his arm and Bucky’s just watching him, soft and a little fond as his fingers trace idle circles on Clint’s back.

Hell, maybe it was.

“Barton, what the fuck?”

“It just went a _little_ sideways,” Clint reasons, scratches at his eyebrow. It comes back flaked with blood and he grimaces, wipes it off on Bucky’s thigh. Bucky smacks him, but not hard enough to warrant stopping. He leans down to kiss Bucky’s nose, snickers when he gets pushed away. Hill coughs pointedly. “Missions do that.”

“Generally you don’t wind up killing a man with an umbrella even if a mission does go sideways,” Natasha says.

“Fucking good throw, though,” Clint replies with a smirk, and Natasha shrugs at him. That’s basically a round of applause, from her, and he beams.

“Did you get the documents, Agent Barton?”

Clint rummages around in his jacket pocket, comes up with one rain-damp page. Fury looks at it with his one good eye like it’s dog shit on his shoe and then returns his stare to Clint’s face. Clint tries not to look too guilty as he passes the page over to Hill.

“What _else_ did you do wrong, Barton?”

“What? No, it’s fine, this is all fine,” Clint says. Hill and Fury give him a dubious look and Bucky sighs from behind him, like he’s absolutely done with Clint’s bullshit even with the way he moved all his junk in from Steve’s last week. Natasha looks like she's five seconds away from facepalming.

The warehouse behind him explodes.

“Except maybe that,” he amends.

“We’re leaving,” Fury says, turns around like they’re unruly children he’s changing his mind about adopting. Clint watches him stalk away, wonders how long it is before he gets to wear an awesome black coat and scowl at everyone. Probably never - no one would take him seriously if he was the boss. Bucky sighs and leans against Clint, metal shoulder cold against his own bare skin. Clint’s kind of a fan of the sleeveless aesthetic anyway.

“Fifteen,” Clint says. “Counting the umbrella guy. Do I get extra points for that?”

Bucky snorts. “No. Seventeen.”

“Twenty three,” Natasha says, folds her arms and looks at them smugly. They sigh in unison and hand over the money, watch as she tucks it away in her bra and turns to leave with a click of high-heeled boots.

Bucky shakes his head. “I swear she’s cheating.”

“Nah,” Clint says, links their fingers together and starts walking towards the waiting cab. Hopefully he won’t have to pay extra for the blood - it should all be dry, but who knows. Life has a thing against him. “She’s just better than we are. And honestly, we kind of deserve the creaming after everything.”

Bucky makes a noise like maybe he doesn’t agree, but doesn’t start an argument. He’s got a backpack slung over one shoulder that he hadn’t had before, and when they get in the taxi he rummages around in it like he’s hunting for something. Clint gives the directions to his - _their_ \- apartment, and then raises an eyebrow curiously. Bucky pulls out a small brown box and then passes it over to Clint, looks at him expectantly.

Clint looks down at the box. “Should I be scared?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Bucky grumbles. “It’s a gift, you ungrateful shit.”

“You’re such a romantic,” Clint says dryly, but obediently opens the box and peers inside. Then looks back at Bucky. Then at the box again. He does this a few more times and Bucky looks vaguely anxious, glances at the taxi driver before he leans into Clint’s space to speak.

“I wasn’t hanging out with you those weeks when we were benched because I was trying to learn how to paint,” he says. “Steve was tryin’ to teach me. Spent hours and hours practicing, acrylics, oils, all that bullshit to try and make this.”

“Holy shit, Bucky,” Clint says as he carefully pulls out the Kida, Disney Princess, mug. “You _painted_ this?”

“Remembered you complaining there wasn’t an official one,” Bucky replies. “But no. I accidentally shattered mine with the left hand because I got frustrated. Steve did that one.”

“Still,” Clint says, awed. “Holy shit. It’s too early to propose to you, but oh man, I’m thinking about it now.”

“Shut your mouth,” Bucky answers, elbows Clint painfully even though there’s a proud little smile on his face. “We already have a stupid story about how we got together, don’t turn a proposal into somethin’ stupid too.”

“I’ll try not to,” Clint says, has to turn and kiss him. They’re both still smiling, so it’s not the most graceful thing, but Clint figures that their entire relationship is a little off-kilter.

"Propose to me when we have Rumlow's corpse on a slab in the morgue," Bucky decides. 

"Yeah, that's a real upgrade," Clint says dryly, thinks about rings that would work with a metal hand. Bucky laughs, bright and amused, leans in to press another kiss to Clint's lips.

Maybe this is just their own weird, kind of dumb version of perfect.

Either way, he’s happy.


End file.
